


The Metamorphosis

by waterbird13



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Discussions of abuse, Gen, Mending Relationships, Minor Body Horror, Minor Character Death, Own Characters - Freeform, Temporary Death, The Darkness - Freeform, dean negative, season eleven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Darkness encloses a small town, leaving Sam, Dean, and the locals to fight their way out. Along the way, Sam and Dean have issues to sort out--namely, Sam and Dean both need to acknowledge the value of Sam's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone--
> 
> This is my quite large season 11 fic I've been working on for some time now. I hope you like it.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my beta, Queen-of-Carven-Stone (Liron-aria here on AO3). Avani, you are wonderful, and thank you so much for doing this.
> 
> Warnings: discussions/examples of abuse (Dean's abuse of Sam), minor body horror, minor character death, temporary character death, self-esteem issues, suicidal thoughts, OCs, rebuilding/working through relationships.
> 
> Additional caveat: While this fic and its discussion of abuse is more true to life than the show itself, one should know that, if one is in a real life abusive relationship, trying to fix things probably isn't the best idea. While it's theoretically possible for an abuser to change, and it's not my job to tell anyone what they should or shouldn't do, a person should probably leave, for their own health and safety. This is designed to reflect the realities of fiction.
> 
> Hope everyone enjoys!

Once you’re in the Darkness, there is no way out. It’s a giant bubble of angry, coiling, opaque smoke, and Sam and Dean can’t even see ten feet in front of them, never mind find their way out. They can’t even get a message out. Cell phones don’t work. Sam’s laptop is a useless hunk of computer parts that can’t get internet. For all they know, prayer doesn't even work. Cas certainly isn't responding. In short, they’re trapped in the middle of nowhere, in an angry bubble of smoke, waiting in the car, wondering if the world will end.

Sam wonders what it must look like from the outside. Because once their hearts start beating right again, and they begin to explore, it becomes immediately evident that there is an _outside_.

As far as they can tell, the Darkness hasn’t covered the whole globe. It hasn’t even covered the country, or the state. It’s stuck swallowing up a little less than one county. Or, anyway, it is as near as they can tell. Finding the edge doesn’t look much different than anything else. It’s still all swirling black smoke. The edges are angrier, though, fighting them, pushing them back towards the center of the Darkness' hold, refusing to release them to the outside. In the rest of the bubble, the air is dark but not impenetrable. At the edges, it might as well be cave darkness.

They can’t get out, but at least the Darkness seems to have a limit. It’s not entirely comforting, Sam supposes. The Darkness is weak. It’s been shut away since before God even made light, Dean’s told him. Yet its first foray back onto earth can take out most of a county almost immediately. Sam can’t help but wonder what’s coming next.

It’s a quieter county. Thank God for that, Sam supposes, although what God has to do with this when this was his mess to deal with to begin with is beyond Sam. He and Dean were in the middle of nowhere when the spell hit. But they are not alone in here. They’ve met people, a few dozen so far and they know there must be more. So far, the Darkness hasn’t done anything but trap them. Sam’s sure the second shoe is about to drop.

Most people are choosing to stay in their homes. The end of their world has come, but crops still need to be taken care of. The lack of sunlight is slowly killing them, and Sam doubts anything will make it towards harvesting season. Still, he understands fighting a losing battle, and doesn’t say anything. This is these people’s livelihood; they know the reality far better than he does, anyways.

Some people have chosen to forsake helpless plots of land and join him and Dean. It’s not exactly what they wanted, but Sam supposed everyone present is in this mess up to their eyeballs anyways, and there is no sparing them, no keeping them safe. Whether or not they’d be safer if they stayed home is immaterial at this point. They need a way out, and everyone knows just as much as they do about what they’re into. Which is to say, not much.

People panicked when the Darkness rolled over, when the sun went out, when they lost access to the outside world. It was understandable. Once the Darkness settled and it became apparent they weren’t going to immediately die, Sam and Dean dug the Impala out and began driving, high beams on even though it should be the middle of the day. They barely cut through the blackness, and even Dean chose to drive slow, for fear of not being able to see more than fifteen feet in front of his face.

They had found people, mostly by accident. There were other people on the road, presumably trying to escape the Darkness, only they hadn’t driven as carefully, or else they hadn’t been as used to hazard driving as Dean is. Either way, they’d gone off the road, and only Sam’s quick eyes had spotted them, their feeble, flickering headlights barely making a spot of illumination to latch onto.

The car had been a write-off, but everyone escaped with no more than cuts and bruises. Dean gave the two twenty-somethings a ride back home, and Sam filled them in while Dean watched the road.

That one connection to the locals had spawned more, and more, and soon enough the Winchester’s message of what happened was spreading around. Evil is real. Things go bump in the night. And an ancient evil--probably _the_ most ancient evil--has rolled over their township.

Sam and Dean vowed to find a way out. “There’s gotta be a weak spot,” Dean had said.

Sam had agreed. “It’s not that strong yet,” he said. “We’ll find it.”

Somehow, the quest for the two of them in the Impala turned into a caravan, the two of them and nine others moving across the area under the Darkness, searching for a way out.

First they get Caitlyn and Jackson, brother and sister who they picked up on the side of the road. Neither of them know anything about the supernatural, but they do both have a lifetime of work on their dad’s farm behind them and permission to take their dad’s truck. They can keep up.

Then they get Mark and his daughter, Laura, the only two remaining on their family’s tiny farm. They decide to abandon the lost cause to look for a way out. Sam’s weary about letting the seventeen year old join them, but as Laura points out, it’s not like she can go to school instead. Parents are too wary to let their kids wander far, so school is shut down until the darkness recedes. Laura has nothing else to do. “It’s not gonna get better until this all goes away,” she says, and they have to accept it.

Cheryl, the high school nurse and track coach, joins in too. “Can’t work, might as well help,” she says after she finishes examining the cuts and bruises that litter every inch of Sam’s exposed skin. “Besides, I have a feeling you’re gonna need someone to keep you all alive.”

Billie was interning at the local veterinary clinic prior to the Darkness rolling in, and she picks up a shotgun like she was born with one in her hands. There’s nothing to shoot yet, but Sam’s not exactly convinced that there won’t be.

Harriet is getting close to seventy, but she’s absolutely no-nonsense and drives a big old Chevy pickup that she follows their caravan with every day. Harriet just seems to want her town back, and Sam can’t blame her.

James and Keiran are best friends and introduce themselves as roommates. Sam doesn’t want to assume, but he tends to think that there’s a little more there. He guesses it’s not much of his business, not unless they decide to share. Both men are ex-army and saving people seems to be in their DNA.

So, Sam and Dean have somehow found a small little army of followers to help them win this fight. They drive around in a little line of cars, headlights on day or night, looking for the perimeter of the Darkness.

“Pick a direction and drive,” Dean says, and it’s as sound a plan as any, so they drive due west, on the town’s biggest road, for forty-five minutes. There should be fields outside the windows, crops waiting to grow, maybe some animals, maybe some farm houses. Should be, but Sam can’t see any of them other than what is illuminated by the dim light of headlights that manages to filter through the Darkness.

After forty-five minutes, the Darkness intensifies. Dean flips on his brights, hoping to break the fog for them and the line of cars behind them. It doesn’t help, and as they keep pushing forward, the Darkness only seems to grow thicker.

Then the wind picks up. Dean grits his teeth, mutters “ _son of a bitch_ ” beneath his breath, grips the steering wheel tighter, but keeps on. Tendrils of smoke creep out to surround the car, like oily fingers grabbing it, and that is when Dean’s resolve shatters. He flips on his hazards for anyone who might have dared to follow them this far, and guns it in reverse.

The Darkness lets them go without much of a fight, and the whole caravan settles a quarter of a mile away from what is evidently the border. “It doesn’t want us to leave,” Sam sums up.

Dean rolls his eyes. “No shit, Sherlock. What _does_ it want, though?”

It’s a question, of course, that none of them can answer.

James speaks up. “Check it for weak points?” he asks.

Dean takes a deep breath, then stands upright, tall once more. The commander viewing his troops, Sam thinks, and he hunches his shoulders. “Yeah,” Dean says. “It’s gotta have weak points.”

“What if it doesn’t?” Laura asks.

“It will,” Dean insists.

Sam isn’t so sure. The Darkness is as weak as it’s ever been, but that doesn’t mean it’s weak. Ancient evils may not have weak points. If it took God and four archangels to beat it the first time, Sam isn’t sure two beaten down hunters and nine ragtag locals are going to take it out.

Dean takes charge. Sam expected it, and he’s not surprised that everyone listens, either. Even James and Keiran listen to him. “Right,” he says. “We’ll drive the perimeter. The whole thing. Feel out its weak points, mount an attack.”

Sam looks around the circle surreptitiously. Most of them look stupidly brave, determined. They’re probably buying into Dean’s confidence. Besides, none of them were in that car. None of them really know what they’re facing.

Sam reminds himself that he doesn’t really either. And he has no way to even try to do research here, cut off from the real world. Maybe randomly poking at the Darkness, seeing what results, is the best bet after all.

Sam starts calculating how large an area the Darkness is covering. He swallows. No one knows exactly, of course. But it’s enough. This is going to take a while, unless they happen to find the weakness right away.

They’re Winchesters. Sam doesn’t believe in things going well like that.

They drive right on the edge of where it gets too dark to see, occasionally venturing a bit deeper, just to prove that the Darkness is still indeed holding them prisoner. Every time, the tendrils lash at them, and they have to make a steady retreat, moving back to the safe line before continuing to check the perimeter.

Time has become incredibly relative in the Darkness, with no sun to determine day or night, but they all know when they’ve been going at it too long. If it was just him and Dean, Sam is certain Dean would insist on continuing. But, with the crowd, Dean lets them stop.

They end up in a barn. There’s a farmhouse just a couple hundred yards away, but it’s not built for fifteen, and with the four occupants plus the eleven of them, the house would be full to bursting. The barn is sheltered, at least, and they set up the sleeping bags they’ve been keeping in Harriet’s flat bed across the old floor. They set up battery operated camping lanterns, giving themselves at least a little light. It doesn't filter through the Darkness very well, but it's better than nothing. They just have to hope the batteries keep running.

James and Keiran filled the back of their car with all the food they could get, emptying their own place. Everyone else chipped in. There’s still bread, still fresh food, so tonight is turkey and cheese sandwiches and a banana each. The fresh food will rot soon, and they’ll be left with the cans. That will get old fast.

“So, this is what you boys do,” Mark says.

Sam shrugs. “Not so much,” he says. “This is new to us too.”

Billie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I think we woulda noticed if this happened often.”

Dean manages to crack a grin. “If hunters do our job right, things like this don’t get seen by people.”

“What, you fuck up your job?” Jackson asks.

Dean shrugs, shoulders tensing a little bit. “Not me, man.”

The accusation is sharp. Sam stares firmly at the ground, turning his sandwich over in his hands, but not eating it.

“So, what, you’re just clean up?” Caitlyn asks.

“Guess so,” Dean says. “Straighten this all out quick as we can, get you folks back to your lives.”

Sam does wonder, then, what kind of life he has to go back to. At least he has one at all, he guesses. He almost died. Dean almost killed him.

It would have been better. It would have been better if Dean had just killed him, if Sam was smart enough to call Cas first, tell him to call off the spell, do whatever he wanted with what's left but not go through with it. Then he could get back on his knees, give Dean the pictures, and let Dean finish the job so Death could take care of things, and none of this would have happened.

He squeezes his fist together, then feels squished cheese ooze between his fingers and realizes he crushed his sandwich.

“You okay there, Sam?” Cheryl says, apparently watching him from her seat a foot or two away from him.

He nods. “Fine,” he says.

“Don’t look fine.”

He shrugs. “I am. Just distracted, I guess.”

She moves closer, and Sam can’t help but push back a bit. Her eyes narrow. “Right. Fine,” she says, and Sam is suddenly reminded of a school nurse in Iowa, the one he had to hand forged proof of his immunization records to, the one who took a little too much interest in the bruises littering his arms from training. She’d called CPS. They’d had to move, and Dad had to call in Caleb to finish the hunt. He’d been pissed.

“Let me look at those cuts,” she says.

“They’re fine,” Sam says.

“Sam, you look like someone tried to beat your head in,” she says. “We both know you have a concussion, we both know how easily those cuts could get infected. It’s honestly a miracle nothing is broken. Let me look. I’m a nurse.”

Sam sighs but acquiesces, not wanting to make a scene. Laura and Harriet are already settling in to go to sleep, the others milling around the barn quietly. Even Dean is distracted, talking lowly to Keiran and Mark. Sam doesn’t want to draw their attention.

She checks the cuts and bruises, checks the response of his eyes and how well his neck bends, and she does it all with a tiny penlight she keeps in her coat pocket. “What happens when the batteries die?” she asks quietly, fearfully looking at the little light that produces just enough of a glow to get the job done.

Sam shrugs. “We find more.”

“And when we run out?”

“We hope it doesn’t get to that.”

“It’s not just batteries. It’s food. Gas. The only reason we even have electricity at all is because we produce our own, the power plant is inside this thing. But that will run out too. Without coal to produce more…” she trails off, still staring at her penlight.

Sam gently touches her hand. “I know,” he says. “But we’re…we’ll get through this, alright? There’s always a way out. We’ll figure it out.”

She nods, and puts her light away. She leaves her hands in her pockets, and Sam gives her the dignity of pretending that he doesn’t know they’re shaking. “Well, you’re as well off as you can be. What happened?” she asks. “You never said.”

Sam shrugs. “Not important,” he says. “I was supposed to die. There was a change of plans. You should get some sleep, Cheryl. I doubt Dean’ll let us sleep in tomorrow.”

There really isn’t much _us_ to it at all, as Sam doubts he’ll be sleeping altogether. But it doesn’t hurt to say it, to form this sense of camaraderie. If they’re going to fight the Darkness together, then they’ll need it.

She nods. “Right. I’m going to...right.” She shakes her head. “I never thought…”

“I know,” Sam says, voice gentle once more. “I can’t promise it’ll all look better in the morning. It won’t. But in the morning, we’ll start working towards finding a way out again, alright?”

She manages to offer him a bit of a smile before moving off to find a sleeping bag.

Dean makes his way over to Sam as soon as Cheryl’s gone. “Meeting,” he says tensely, and Sam gets up to follow him into the far corner of the barn, slightly isolated from the others.

“What’s up?” Sam asks.

“We need to ditch the civvies,” Dean says. “Soon as they’re asleep.”

Sam blinks. “You wanna just...get rid of them all?” he checks.

Dean shrugs. “They’re only holding us back.”

Sam can’t really see that, considering they have no idea what they’re doing and wouldn’t be getting anywhere, with or without their caravan of tag-alongs. They all drive, and all their cars are sound. They keep up just fine.

“It’s not like it’s a vampire hunt,” Sam starts. “We’re not bringing them into contact with anything like that.”

“No, it’s only the fucking Darkness,” Dean snarls. “Only the most ancient evil we could possibly find.”

Sam shrugs. “Then they’re in danger everywhere. We’re in the belly of the beast, Dean. Who the hell knows what will happen? Maybe they’ll be useful.”

“Maybe we’ll just get them killed,” Dean snaps. “Ever think of that? Ever think you’re just dragging someone else to their death?”

Sam can physically feel the color drain from his face.

 _Charlie_. It’ll always come back to Charlie. Sam supposes he deserves that, considering everything.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Whatever--whatever you think is best. Fine.”

Dean looks triumphant, although he disguises it quickly, giving Sam a nod before he turns to walk back into the main part of the barn, where everyone else is.

James is blocking the door. “We’ll leave in the morning,” he announces. “For now, I’ll take first watch.”

Dean looks like he’s barely choking back rage. “Watch?” he snaps. “Watch what?”

James shrugs, apparently unruffled. “Never know what’s out there. You should get some sleep.”

Dean hesitates a moment. He could take the ex-soldier, Sam knows. But Dean seems to be shying away from physical violence, at least right now. Sam wonders how long the aversion will last.

“Fine,” he snaps. “Six AM sharp. Be ready.”

There’s an old grain shoot leaving from the loft, but Sam doesn’t fancy the idea of fitting himself into it. If Dean hasn’t seen it yet, Sam isn’t going to mention it.

They settle into sleeping bags, Dean making his aggravation known, jerking the bag around into what is apparently the appropriate place, then loudly sliding inside. He turns on his side, away from Sam, and doesn’t say another word.

Sam shrugs, and gets into bed himself. Maybe they will get them killed, but, judging by James’ behavior, they don’t want to go.

Shockingly, he sleeps that night. Then again, he can’t remember the last time he did. Maybe his body is just so tired, it had to give in and recover. Or maybe, it’s just gearing up for whatever lies ahead.

 

Sam wakes and immediately glances at his watch. Five in the morning. He might as well get up.

It’s disorienting. It’s still pitch dark, and the birds aren’t making any noise, the Darkness disrupting their normal schedule. Sam wonders if eventually they’ll revert to their internal clocks to know when night and day is, or if the Darkness has ruined them.

He sits him and looks around, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark barn. Keiran is at the door now, sitting with his back against it, hands draped over his knees. He nods at Sam.

Sam looks around and notices everyone else is still asleep, even Dean. Then again, Sam knows full well Dean wasn’t sleeping well with the Mark and the nightmares it gave him. His body is probably just playing catch-up.

Sam moves over to the other side of the barn, so he can sit with Keiran. “How long you been up?” he asks quietly.

The man shrugs. “Few hours. James and I traded, half on, half off.”

“We’ll keep watch tonight; you two sleep,” Sam says.

Keiran gives him a crooked grin. He’s missing his left incisor, Sam realizes, and wonders how he lost it. “Tell the truth, we were more worried ‘bout you and your brother bolting than anyone getting in.”

“Good call,” Sam says. “Dean was close last night. But…it can’t hurt. We really don’t know what’s out there.”

“In all your years hunting, never seen anything like this before?” Keiran asks.

Sam shakes his head. “It’s been locked away since before time began, we know that much,” Sam says. He doesn’t mention God, or the archangels. That particular revelation doesn’t always go over well; either people don’t believe, or they do, and they’re disappointed when Sam has to bare the news at how truly non-angelic angels actually are, how God has abandoned them all. It’s never news he likes giving if it’s unnecessary.“It’s…evil, but I have no details on how,” he says. If only Dean hadn’t killed their only information source. Then again, he was kind of backed into a corner, Sam rationalizes. “I can’t research it or anything, not without our library. The only…guy…who knew anything is dead. We’re on our own with this.”

“Right,” Keiran says. Then, “God, I want a cigarette.”

“Then have one,” Sam says. “Don’t exactly think the barn is a smoke-free environment.”

Keiran shakes his head. “James got me to agree to quit. Two weeks ago. I have those patches,” he says, rolling up his sleeve to show Sam. “Not the same. Need to do something with my hands. Need the smoke.”

“I know,” Sam says, even though he doesn’t. He’s never smoked, the one lesson from Dad that permanently stuck and Sam didn’t argue with. Smoke in your lungs slows you down, rots you from the inside out, kills you faster. Sam has no desire to die like that.

Keiran sighs, fiddling with the patch for a moment, as if he can coax it to give him more nicotine just be touching it, before adjusting his sleeve over it. “Your brother still planning to bail?” he asks.

Sam shrugs. “I can never tell what Dean wants, or what he’s going to do,” he says. “He’ll do whatever he wants. If you all just follow us out, though, don’t think there’s much he can do about it.”

“Good enough. Think we’ll really get out of this?” He asks it casually, like he’s asking about rain, and Sam wonders what stuff this man has seen in his life already. Nothing good, he’s sure. “Seems like a tough spot.”

Sam and Dean averted the apocalypse. They took out the Leviathans. Sam’s almost sure they’ll find a way through this, eventually. “Yeah,” he says, looking at his watch. “It’s five forty. Time to get everyone going.”

They wake everyone up, and everyone gets up and starts packing without complaint. They’re on the road by six, just like Dean demanded last night. The Impala is in front, the rest of the cars trailing behind. Dean leads the way and determines the route, choosing roads and cutting through dying fields, whatever he needs to keep along the perimeter they’ve determined.

Dean periodically points the car in the direction of out of the Darkness, and every time they are met by a vicious backlash, smoky tendrils coming out to lash at the car, shaking it, seemingly trying to get at them. Every time, they have to back off.

Dean grits his teeth and focuses on what he’s doing, refusing to talk. Sam feels useless. He’s not driving. There’s nothing to fight. He can’t do any research as things stand. He’s stuck, an accessory attached to Dean, no more than a weight dragging him down, a space filler in this car while Dean does the heavy lifting.

There’s a loud screeching behind them, like tires stuck, spinning but not catching, and Sam immediately turns around in his seat. It’s Jackson and Caitlyn’s truck. They must have drifted too close to the edge, because the tendrils are prodding at their car. Jackson is trying to get away, but the car seems stuck. Sam can’t tell if it’s from the soft ground of the field or something the Darkness is doing itself, but it doesn’t much matter, because they seem trapped.

Sam’s heart is in his throat. He doesn’t know how to help, and Dean’s words from last night come back to him.

_Ever think you’re just dragging someone else to their death?_

Thankfully, Jackson guns the engine and they break free, back into the safe zone. Dean grits his teeth, mutters “damn civvies” under his breath, and diverts from the perimeter, moving them a little further from the edge so they can check on Jackson, Caitlyn, and their car. Sam just tries to get his heart to stop hammering.

They park less than a hundred yards away, forming a little circle so their headlights can give them some illumination, and Caitlyn is out of the car before Jackson even throws it in park, crying. “It _touched_ him!” she wails.

“What the hell?” Dean snaps, getting out of the Impala. “What were you idiots doing?”

“Fuck that,” Billie says. “What d’you mean, it _touched_ you?”

“The…hands,” Caitlyn says, her cries slowing down not that someone is listening to her. “It reached in through the window and _touched_ him. Here,” she says, gesturing to her twin’s heart. Sam’s own hammers in response.

“I’m fine,” Jackson says. “Freaky as hell, but I’m good,” he says. “It’s just mist. Just really thick mist. It can’t hurt you.”

Everyone stares at him. No one quite believes him, of course, even if he does look as fine as he claims to be.

“Why was your window open, anyways?” Dean asks.

Jackson shrugs. “I wanted a smoke. Caitlyn gets pissy when I smoke with the windows up.”

“Right,” Sam interrupts before Dean can go off on the guy. “No more windows down.”

“But…” Laura says, “we’re all outside now. In the Darkness. Why isn’t it…are we in danger?” she asks, looking around at the little circle of cars, the dark mist touching them all. She moves closer to her father, and he puts a hand on her back. His face, Sam sees, goes ashen, thinking about it.

“No,” Sam says. “It’s…focusing on the outer edge. It wants to expand, and it’s focusing its energy there. We’re just…inside it. I doubt it even knows. Like the belly of the whale,” he concludes.

Everyone stares at him for a moment. Sam shrugs self-consciously. “I don’t know for sure,” he admits. “But you kinda get good at guessing about this stuff. It makes sense.”

“Great,” Mark sighs. “So, it’s alive.”

Sam nods. “But probably only after people who go towards the edges,” he adds. “That’s where its…” He hesitates over the word, but it seems right, “ _consciousness_ is.”

“You sure you’re okay, Jackson?” Cheryl asks.

He nods. “Right as rain,” he proclaims. “Seriously, everyone. It feels gross, but it’s just mist.”

In Sam’s experience, nothing is ever just mist. But Jackson looks okay. There’s no signs that it actually did anything to him.

Dean shrugs. “Fine. Back on the road, then. Keep your windows tight and keep to the path.”

No one looks entirely happy with that, but they do have to admit it makes sense. It doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong with Jackson, and they have a mission to complete. So they all load back into various vehicles, and everyone is exceedingly careful about their windows and where they drive.

Dean mutters under his breath while he drives. Sam mostly ignores him. Dean’s not talking to him, just venting his frustration. This isn’t what he wanted for Dean after the Mark was lifted. He wanted some peace, some time off. There is something to be said for getting back on the horse, but there is even more to be said for letting a raw nerve heal. Dean needs to rest, to recover, to not be dealing with any of this.

Today Sam’s neck hurts, presumably from the beating he took only a few days ago. He supposes that’s his fault, for provoking a fight, prolonging the inevitable. He shakes his head slightly. In the grand scheme of things, Sam’s slightly sore neck is meaningless, nothing in comparison to everything going on around them. Still, he subtly shift so he can lean his head against the seat, taking some pressure of his neck, hoping Dean won’t notice or comment. He shouldn’t have worried, because Dean does neither.

They test the edges again and again throughout the afternoon, and Sam hopes it’s just his imagination over-reacting, but he gets a strange feeling that they have to go further and further each time to reach the point where the Darkness has defenses and attacks them. Either its defenses are weakening, allowing them to penetrate further, or it’s expanding, pushing its resources further out as it seizes more ground. Sam has a suspicion it’s the latter. That’s how things go for Winchesters.

Sam wonders what’s allowing it to expand. Maybe it just needed time to acclimate to being out in the world. That’s not exactly comforting, and Sam wonders how long it will take for the Darkness to consume the world. Does it spread at a uniform rate, or in fits and starts? Is it linear, or exponential? Or maybe it’s not just time the Darkness needed. Maybe it’s feeding, somehow, and growing stronger for it. That sends a chill down Sam’s spine. Why? How?

He shakes his head. It’s probably all just his imagination, the result of months of jumpiness, of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dean hasn’t said anything. Dean hasn’t noticed. That’s enough to, if not silence Sam’s fears, at least quiet them.

Around five, according to Sam’s watch, Harriet behind them honks her horn, then flips her right blinker on. She pulls out of line and parks in the middle of a field. Everyone else follows suit, Dean last of all, grumbling the whole way.

“What?” Dean grouches, getting out of the car.

Harriet shrugs. “Dinner time, Dean. We skipped lunch, barely had time for a bite to eat on our way out the door this morning. Working people need food.”

Dean must be hungry too, because if even Sam can feel it--now that Harriet’s reminder is prompting him to pay attention--then Dean certainly should be able to. Still, Dean scowls. “Civvies,” he mutters under his breath, like civilians are the only people who get hungry. He rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Make it quick. We need to get back on the road.”

“I’ll get food,” Caitlyn volunteers, and it’s only then that Sam really looks at her. Her eyes seem red, and a little puffy, and he frowns.

“I’ll help,” he offers, following her. “You okay?” he asks her as soon as they’re out of earshot.

She shrugs. “I’m fine,” she says. “Jackson’s just...in a bad mood. It’s a stressful day, you know? He doesn’t mean it.”

“Did he say something to you?” Sam asks.

“Just...an old argument,” she hedges. “I told you, he’s stressed. Maybe some dinner will help.”

Maybe, Sam thinks. But maybe not. “Caitlyn, he was touched…” he begins.

“He says he’s fine,” she says, taking no argument. “Things will be fine.”

They’ve been gone too long, so they carry the food back to the group, and they all sit in a tight little circle so they can see each other as they eat, another night of sandwiches. Sam keeps watching Caitlyn and Jackson. Whatever she said, he can’t help but notice that Caitlyn isn’t sitting anywhere near her brother.

“Well,” Harriet says, ten minutes into dinner. “Does anyone have a plan for the night?”

“We need to get shelter,” James says.

“We could sleep in the cars,” Laura says.

“Maybe you could,” Keiran says, “but the rest of us are a bit taller. Poor Sam there wouldn’t ever stand up straight again.”

“I’ve slept in the car before,” Sam assures them.

“It’s a last resort,” Cheryl says.

Mark clears his throat. “If I’m right ‘bout where we are, then my friend Jake’s house should be a half mile or so over that way,” he says, gesturing away from the edge of the Darkness. “He’d let us in. At least into the barn. Good enough, right?”

Everyone nods.

“Right,” Dean says, who so far has stayed out of the conversation. “We’ll do that. I’ll take first watch tonight.” He shoots a significant look at Sam, and Sam realizes that Dean is still set on leaving.

“No can do, Dean,” James says. “You’ll just wander off.”

“I’ll take it,” Mark offers.

Jackson shrugs. “I can grab second watch.”

Everyone looks uncomfortable at that. “Maybe you should sleep,” Cheryl tries. “You’ve had a rough day, and everything.”

“I keep telling you all, I’m _fine_!” Jackson snaps, the hands balling into fist belaying the message. Cheryl flinches back, even though Mark, Laura, and Harriet are all between her and Jackson.

“Right,” Dean drawls. “Fine.”

Sam closes his eyes for a brief moment. Trust Dean to escalate the situation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jackson demands.

“Buddy, I don’t care if you feel like a million fucking bucks,” Dean says. “That thing touched you today. Until we know what that means, you’re on supernatural lock down. Frankly, I should can your ass from this team, and would do it if it didn’t mean I wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on you.” He ignores Jackson’s sputtered protests and turns to James. “And for your information, this is why I wanted to bail,” he says. “Stupid civvies who can’t keep themselves out of trouble. But Sammy wanted to stay, didn’t you, Sammy?” he asks, turning to Sam now.

Sam is saved having to answer by Harriet. “It doesn’t matter what Sam wanted, or what you wanted,” she says firmly. “This is our choice, Dean. We want to do this. We want to help. We know as much as you do, and we made our choice.”

Dean looks like he wants to say something else, but shakes his head. “Don’t come crying to me when people start dying,” he says.

“We’re gonna be fine,” Billie says. “We can take care of ourselves. Besides, it doesn’t seem like it can hurt us.”

Sam looks around, reading everyone’s faces. Only a few of them--Laura and Jackson, mainly--seem to believe that. Everyone else is, like Sam, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Right,” Sam interrupts. “We should get going, if we want Mark’s friend to let us in.”

Everyone nods, and cleans up their mess, packing the cars back up, and moving out.

 


	2. Chapter Two

Mark’s friend lets them camp out in his living room, the eleven of them spread over the two worn couches, the old armchair, and the floor. Mark sits with his back to the front door as soon as his friend Jake leaves the room. There’s no reason to worry Jake. There’s probably nothing to be worried about. Honestly, Sam knows, the guard is more to make sure Dean doesn’t walk off.

And to keep an eye on Jackson, who’s become increasingly snappish, and even raised his hands once or twice. Even if he hasn’t hit anyone yet, it’s looking more like just a matter of time, now. Sam positions his own sleeping bag close to Jackson’s. Caitlyn keeps James, Keiran, Billie, Dean, and Sam between her and her brother.

Cheryl approaches Sam once again before they all lie down. “You know the drill, Sam,” she says. Sam sighs but doesn’t protest, just lets her look him over. Dean snorts from the bag next to him.

“Going soft?” he asks. The words don’t have much bite. Once upon a time, Sam might have even thought them to be a joke, and that’s probably how Dean means them, he reminds himself. He still closes his eyes after Dean speaks.

“There’s nothing _soft_ about proper medical care,” Cheryl snaps. “Your brother took quite a beating somehow, and making sure he heals right and nothing ends up infected is important.”

Dean snorts but doesn’t say anything more, so Sam just holds still and lets Cheryl work. “I think you’re healing up nicely,” she says. “You’re very lucky. That could have easily been a lot worse.”

He wants to tell her the goal was for him to die, that a few cuts and bruises are meaningless on a corpse. But he holds his tongue. That’s between him and Dean. And Death, he supposes, but Death took that secret…well, to his death.

Instead, he thanks her, and gently indicates that she should go to bed. She heads out to her sleeping bag, leaving Sam and Dean alone.

“Guess we’re stuck with them,” Dean says.

Sam shrugs. He’s known that since Jackson and Caitlyn insisted on following them out from their place, really. “Guess so,” he says. He pauses for a minute, wondering if it’s worth his time, and then says, “Well. It’s not like we know any more about this than they do.”

“We’re hunters,” Dean says, as if that is some explanation. “We can take care of ourselves.”

“They’re doing okay,” Sam says.

Dean snorts, then jerks his head to Jackson, who is sitting upright still, staring straight ahead. “You call that okay?”

Sam is worried about the younger man, to tell the truth. The Darkness touched him, and Sam doubts it’s a friendly pat on the back. Jackson is irritable, on edge.

Sam shrugs helplessly. If anything happens to Jackson, then it’s his fault. Dean warned him, Dean wanted to leave.

“Get some sleep,” Dean says abruptly. “Need you sharp tomorrow.”

“Dean,” Say says hesitantly. “We’re almost the whole way around. Even driving slow as we are, the area is only so big. What do we do if...what if there are no weak spots, Dean?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs. “We think of something else.” He gets into his sleeping bag, clearly done with the conversation. Sam supposes he should take the hint, and follows suit.

He doesn’t sleep easily tonight. On the contrary, he’s up most of the night, listening to everyone breathing, hearing Jackson’s shuffling, and thinking about what might happen in the days ahead.

 

Sam relieves Mark three hours later, since they never did decide who should be second guard. Jackson is still awake, and Sam can’t tell if he’s unaware or deliberately ignoring them in some form of silent treatment.

Mark looks weary about giving Sam the door, but Sam smiles softly at him. “He’s over there,” he says, gesturing to a sleeping Dean. “I won’t leave without him. Besides, it’s him that wants to leave, not me.” Mark eventually gives him the post and goes to get some sleep beside his daughter.

Being on watch is boring, but at least it’s an excuse to be awake and looking around the room. He watches everyone, watching them sleep and breathe and snuffle. He watches Jackson, still sitting upright, eyes closed now, fists clenched. Sam wonders if he should reach out to him, but thinks the ensuing escalating voices will wake people. He resolves to hold off.

He keeps one eye on Jackson, but from then on, he mostly watches Dean. Dean seems to be sleeping better than he did with the Mark, although Sam knows him well enough to know that calling it “restful” would be a gross exaggeration. Dean moves a bit in his sleep, more than he ever would if he was relaxed. His face is scrunched up a tiny bit, and Sam wonders what he’s dreaming about. Is he seeing himself holding the scythe above Sam, ready to swing? Is he imagining a different outcome, maybe wishing for it? Is he focused back on Charlie? Or is he seeing back to chasing Sam around the Bunker with a hammer? Or any of the people he killed?

Sam shakes his head. It’s no use speculating. Dean will talk about it if he wants to. He won’t want to, but Sam will be here to listen should he ever decide he wants to, for whatever reason.

This should be when the sun rises, when the birds wake up. Instead, it remains as stubbornly dark outside as ever. Sam sighs, and checks his watch. Five fifteen. He’ll give them another half hour of sleep.

It’s Harriet who’s up first this morning. She moves quietly across the room and sits down next to Sam. “Morning,” she says.

“Hey,” Sam says, offering her a small smile. “How’d you sleep?”

“Just fine. I suppose I should volunteer to take a turn at this tomorrow night, since I’m so well rested. That is, if we don’t find our way out of this mess today. Maybe we will.” Sam can’t help but notice that she doesn’t look particularly convinced. “Well, I thought the point of these watches was to stop you and that brother of yours from walking out. Doesn’t seem particularly effective if you’re the one watching the door.”

Sam shrugs. “I was awake, and Mark needed to sleep. I convinced him to trade off. Dean’s over there, asleep. I wouldn’t leave without him. Besides,” Sam reminds her, “I wasn’t the one who wanted to leave.”

“If your brother woke up first and demanded you leave with him, you would follow him out that door,” Harriet says. “I haven’t known you very long, but I can see that much.”

“What’s that mean?” Sam asks wearily. It’s not like that anymore. Dean doesn’t just demand things. The Mark is lifted, and Dean no longer sees himself as a dictator. That’s all over.

Except it’s always been that way, the insidious little voice whispers in his brain. Dean had just never put so fine a point on it before.

But things are different. The Mark is gone, and things can return to normal. Sam can work with normal.

“It means,” Harriet says, “that you let him talk over you. Make demands. You make yourself smaller around him. And Sam, maybe I missed the mark on this one, but I can guess what put those cuts and bruises on your skin.”

Sam’s already shaking his head before he finishes. “That’s different,” he says. “Dean isn’t _beating_ me,” he assures her. His brain conjures up an image of Dean’s fist rushing towards his face, the sheer _anger_ on Dean’s face right before he makes contact. But it is different. Dean was just trying to get Sam to see the big picture, to be less selfish. There’s always a reason, and Dean always lets Sam know what it is.

“And I just…figured out a long time ago it’s better to let Dean be in charge,” Sam says. “I’m not good at it. I fuck--sorry--mess things up a lot. Dean’s older, been doing this longer. He’s better at it. Every military unit needs a commander, right?”

Harried stares at him. “Except you’re a family, Sam. Not a military unit.”

Sam shrugs. “For the Winchesters, it’s really the same thing,” he says. “One and the same. It always has been. And I think I just have to accept that.”

_If you want to be brothers…_ but they never would be brothers like Sam wants. Dean’s too much a commander, always will be. Sam, at this point, is honestly just grateful to have a brother, who is whole, and reasonably safe, and not a Knight of Hell. He’ll take whatever he can get.

Harriet sighs. “You don’t have to accept it,” she says gently. “Whatever you’ve been told. It’s not your job to just take things. But…” she hesitates for a moment, “you’re an adult. I suppose it’s your choice what you do, how you live your life. Just know I’m here if you want to talk. I would guess we all are.”

She turns to look around the room, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts. He shifts uncomfortably. He and Dean are fine, going to be fine, now that the Mark is gone. Sam’s put Gadreel and his anger and his feelings about that behind him, because there were bigger things to worry about, because his anger only managed to make things worse, because moving on and forgetting it as best he can is what it will take for him and Dean to be able to keep going. And they will keep going. No matter what Harriet or anyone says, they will keep going. They have to, and Sam will do whatever it takes to make it happen. He won’t lose Dean again. He won’t fail again. Keeping them together and working is all he wants.

Sure, there was a time when he wanted other things. More, he would call it. Different things. And somewhere in him, he still wants them. But this has always been all or nothing. He takes all of whatever Dean has to give, or he gets nothing, and nothing is never any good. He’ll accept all, if that’s what it takes.

He’s jarred from his thoughts when Harriet asks quietly, “Has he been up all night?”

She’s looking at Jackson, who is still sitting upright, staring into the corner. Sam nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess he can’t sleep.”

“Well, he shouldn’t be alone, especially not after what happened yesterday,” Harriet says. She raises her voice slightly. “Jackson, dear, would you like to come sit with us?”

Jackson moves for the first time in hours, turning his head to stare at them. Even across the room, Sam notices his eyes and has to restrain himself from making outwards motions of shock. They look cold, incredibly cold. The soft blue has practically iced over, his eyes narrowed and his gaze hardened. There’s a knife in Sam’s boot, and he suddenly has a thought that he might need it.

He quashes the thought. This is a twenty-two year old kid who’s having a rough time. They can handle this.

Harriet does gasp, and Jackson turns his attention on her. “I thought I told you people,” he fumes, “that I am _fine_. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, and I don’t need any fucking babysitters!”

He’s so loud that everyone starts to wake up. James, Keiran, and Dean sit up immediately, and everyone else wakes more slowly but no less assuredly. Sam thinks absently that it had been almost time to wake everyone up regardless, but this is not how he anticipated doing it.

“Calm down, buddy,” Keiran says gently, voice rough with sleep.

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!”

Footsteps sounds upstairs. They’ve woken Jake or his wife. Sam hears feet on the stairs. “Stay upstairs,” he calls, fervently hoping they listen. The last thing they need is more people involved in this. “We’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes.”

“Think you can just shut me up and move on, Winchester?” Jackson seethes. “Got news for you, then.”

“No one wants you to shut up,” Harriet says firmly. “Jackson, we just want to know what’s going on. We want to help.”

“I don’t need your help!” he shouts. “I can take care of myself.”

“Jackson,” Cheryl says timidly. “I think you’re sick. There’s nothing wrong with needing help when you’re sick.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snaps.

“Jesus, Jackson, please just let them help you,” Caitlyn begs.

Jackson actually stands up to turn on her, and Sam gasps. The man looks fifteen pounds lighter than he did last night, like he spent the whole night losing pound after pound. His face and bare arms are sunken, skin hanging loose in places. Whatever’s going on here, it’s nothing good.

“And _you_ ,” he snaps at his sister, even as she flinches back. “You all high and mighty, telling me I need help. You’re always trying to--trying to belittle me. Trying to say I can’t do whatever I want, however I want. I can take care of myself, Caitlyn!”

She shakes her head repeatedly, eyes closed. “I haven’t, Jackson. I know you can take care of yourself, I promise. Just, right now--”

“Right now, last month, all the damn time!” he says. “You’re always on me about something, like I don’t fucking know what I’m doing. Well I have news for you Caitlyn--you act like you’re so goddamned special, but you’re the fuck up here, okay?”

Caitlyn begins to shake her head faster now, a near constant movement, her eyes squeezed firmly shut. Sam waits in horror for what happens next.

“Poor, gifted Caitlyn,” Jackson sneers. “We have up everything for you. Mom and Dad barely ever remembered I was there. We never had a dime to spare. No time for me, no money for me and my life, not attention. Always Caitlyn and her next dance class, and her new slippers, and lessons, and recitals, and god knows what else! And then you _choked_. No fancy school for you, huh, Caitlyn? Couldn’t even make our sacrifices worth something, could you? You take everything for yourself and just waste it.”

Caitlyn’s still shaking her head, crying.

“That’s it?” Billie bursts out. “That’s what you’re so fucking pissed at? Jesus, dude, take a chill pill. Pet a dog or something. But leave your poor sister alone.”

“Sure, take her side. Everyone always does.”

“With you screaming like that? Can’t imagine why,” Keiran says.

“Guys,” Sam interjects quietly but firmly. “Jackson isn’t well. He’s…well, this is the Darkness.”

“I’m fine,” Jackson snaps.

“Yeah. I bet it wants you to think that,” Sam says. “But look at him. He’s lost more than a dozen pounds. It’s like it’s _eating_ him.”

Everyone goes very still and quiet at that, except Caitlyn, whose tears become noisy at the proclamation.

Then Dean whirls on her. “Did it touch you?” he demands.

“What?” Harriet asks, eyes widening at Dean’s seeming change of topic.

“She was in the same car,” Dean says. “It could’ve touched her too. Then we’d have to deal with two of them.”

Caitlyn shakes her head. “No,” she manages to say.

“Obviously it didn’t, she’s fine,” Mark grumbles.

Dean shrugs. “Good, then. Only one to deal with.”

Sam can see where this is going pretty easily. “No, Dean,” he says lowly.

Dean turns to him. “Don’t start, Sammy,” he says. “You’ve proven you’re incapable at making these decisions.”

Sam flushes. “He hasn’t hurt anyone,” he says. “Maybe we can still save him.”

“Or maybe he’ll start murdering people in an hour,” Dean snaps.

Sam takes a deep breath, aware of all the eyes on him. “I didn’t give up on you,” he tries.

Dean snorts. “And look how that worked out,” he says. “Look where we are now. Good job there, Sam. Not exactly helping your argument.”

Sam flushes. It’s true. His determination brought them here. He would argue that giving up wouldn’t have gotten them anywhere good either--he won’t forget his brother chasing him with a hammer, or beating Charlie half to death, or Cas’ wounds, or Rudy’s lifeless body, or the murders Dean had seemed to take pleasure in--but, then again, Dean had had a plan at the end.

“You said you could handle it for a while,” Sam tries. “Let him try, Dean. Let us find a way to fix it.”

“No library here, Sammy,” Dean says. “No angels to bug, no demons, no witches. What’cha gonna do, heal him with the power of love?”

Sam hasn’t exactly thought of a plan, except that he’s not going to let Dean shoot a twenty-two year old kid. He shrugs. “At least let us try,” he begs.

“You said it yourself, he’s feeding it!” Dean shouts. “Feeding the Darkness! What the hell, we’re gonna let that keep happening?”

“You mind filling the rest of us in, here?” Billie snaps.

Sam and Dean both turn to her. “We have to take him out,” Dean says lowly. “Before the Darkness gets what it wants from him. Before he kills one of us.”

To Sam’s surprise, Cheryl gets up and positions herself in front of Jackson. “From what you’ve said, the boy is sick,” she says. “And it’s my duty to care for him. Not murder him.”

“He’s a danger,” Dean reminds her.

“You don’t actually know that,” Harriet reminds him.

James nods. “He’s a jerk right now. But he hasn’t hurt anyone.”

Sam looks closely at Jackson. He might _want_ to cause violence. His outbursts give every indication that violence would soon follow. Frankly, Sam’s just not sure if he can. He’s literally wasting away before their eyes. The Darkness is sucking him dry.

Dean sighs. “I’m not here for this touchy-feely crap,” he says. “I’m not into your precious feel-good save the children thing. If it’s evil, I put it down. If it’s helping evil, I put it down.”

Caitlyn looks up, eyes still wet with tears but hard. “He’s not evil!” she says. “He’s… I don’t like what he’s saying. But my brother is still in there.” Sam feels for her, sees the effort it took to get that statement out. She dissolves back into the background, practically melting away when Dean’s eyes land on her.

Dean moves on from Caitlyn and looks around. Sam follows his gaze, and is relieved to see that seemingly no one supports Dean.

“Fine,” Dean grumbles. “He makes a wrong move, I shoot him. Don’t come crying to me when he tries to eat someone or something.”

Sam highly doubts cannibalism is a symptom. This isn’t the Mark of Cain at all. Jackson probably isn’t becoming a demon. He’s a food source, not a guardian. But Sam can recognize the anger, the rage, the blaming. Those are all symptoms he’s more than familiar with. And he can guess, therefore, what’s going to happen.

He swallows. “We should move,” he says. He turns to Mark. “Tell your friend we’re headed out. And…tell him to pass along the message. Don’t touch the edge. Don’t walk near the edge. Stay away.”

Mark nods and leaves to do that while everyone else packs up. Jackson scowls and glowers, but his earlier outburst seems to have sapped his energy reserves.

Sam is struck by wondering how long he can last like this. What kind of parasite is the Darkness? If it took so much from Jackson in just the first day, he can’t expect to last long if it remains steady.

Maybe it just needed a big hit to start off. Maybe they can find a way out and away and Jackson can be safe from the Darkness. It seems like a foolish hope, but Sam hopes nonetheless.

Mark comes back downstairs about the same time they finish loading the car. Sam watches him move to Laura and immediately pull her close, kiss the crown of her head. She’s not too much shorter than her father, but he pulls her into his arms for a brief moment nonetheless. Sam thinks he sees his hands shake a little bit.

Once the cars are loaded, they all begin to drive off. Caitlyn is driving her and Jackson’s truck today, and Jackson is complaining a bit, but no one wants him behind the wheel. Perhaps the Darkness will call for him, make him come to it. Even if it doesn’t, he’s weak and unsteady and shouldn’t be driving.

Dean grips the wheel of the Impala as tight as ever and refuses to talk to Sam. As punishments go, the silent treatment is a pretty easy one for Sam to take. He’s pretty sure he did the right thing today. Jackson deserves a chance.

They keep up much of the same routine as they have the last two days, driving the edges and testing the boundaries. The Darkness, far from being weak at any point, seems as strong and reluctant to let them go as ever.

Sam suddenly sees a house that he recognizes. All houses start to look the same after a while, but he would never forget something like the garish green paint, and he can only hope that it looks better in any type of actual light. “Pull over,” he says tensely to Dean. “We need to talk to everyone.”

“What?” Dean says testily. “Sammy, I’m not--”

“Pull over _now_ , Dean,” Sam says, stressing the importance of this. He’s out of patience. Their first plan has failed, and while plan A never works quite right, Sam had been hoping that this would be the one time it would. They could use an easy win.

Dean, shockingly, listens, and soon enough all the cars circle up on the edge of the main road.

“What’s up?” James asks.

“That’s what I wanna know,” Dean grumbles.

“We’ve made it all the way around,” Sam says grimly, pointing to the house. “I recognize this. We passed it a little ways after starting.”

Cheryl squints. “Wasn’t it closer? You’re right. That’s Mrs. Dermott’s house. I could swear it was closer.”

Laura, who has been mostly quiet this entire trip, is the one who gets it first and speaks up. “It’s been feeding,” she says. “On Jackson.”

Sam shrugs. “And anyone else who might’ve touched it. We don’t know for sure he’s the only one. But yeah. It’s getting stronger. And expanding outward.”

“Well, that’s just fucking great,” Billie fumes. “Is it going to take over the world?”

“That’s an awful small goal for something that supposedly once had the entire universe,” Sam points out grimly. The news is not exactly received happily.

“So, is it gonna come after us now?” Mark demands. “Has it realized that there’s food in here, just waiting for it to eat?”

Sam shrugs. For all he knows, it could. There’s nothing stopping it.

“We have to carry on like it isn’t,” he says. “Until it decides otherwise.”

Dean snorts. “Real comforting, Sammy,” he says. “What my brother means is, we have to kill this son of a bitch before it decides the buffet is open.”

Sam doesn’t argue. It is what he meant, he supposes, even if they have no idea how to do so at all.

James seems to be having the same thoughts. “So, how do you kill the Darkness?” he asks, cocking one dark eyebrow.

“Four archangels and a divine being?” Sam offers.

“Right,” Harriet says slowly. “Where do we find them?”

“Well, God fucked out millennia ago,” Dean says.

“And two archangels are dead,” Sam says. “The other two are locked forever in Lucifer’s Cage, and we’re not opening that up. The Darkness seems calm and meek compared to those two.”

He shivers a bit. They had been bad enough when they were on Earth last time. They were bad enough last time Sam had been with them. Another nearly five years Earth time in the Cage couldn’t have done much for their already not incredibly sunny dispositions.

Besides, the chances of Lucifer and Michael helping them out are so slim Sam can’t even calculate them. First, they’ll torture him a fair bit. Then kill him. They’ll probably kill Dean next. Then they’ll burn heaven and earth to the ground.

“How do you know so much about that?” Cheryl asks.

Sam shrugs. “We’re kinda popular with them. And not in a good way.”

“God’s real?” Keiran asks, looking at James as he says it.

“ _Gods_ are real,” Sam says. “Lots of mythologies. Lots are right. The Judeo-Christian God is real, yeah. But he doesn’t seem to care much.”

“It’s his kids you gotta watch out for,” Dean says. “Alright. No archangels, they’re off the table. We got some angel blades in the trunk, but I don’t think stabbing this thing is going to do much,” Dean continues.

Jackson groans suddenly, and Sam looks at him with alarm. He looks even thinner than he did a few hours ago, eyes sunken now, skin wasted. The Darkness is sucking him dry. He’ll probably be dead in a few hours, unless they find a miracle.

“You okay, sweetie?” Cheryl asks. Jackson glares balefully at her, too sick and tired to lash out, apparently not too far gone to want to.

Dean looks over at Jackson and shakes his head. “Be kinder to put the kid out of his misery,” he says, but he says it quietly. Sam’s pretty sure he’s the only one who hears. Jackson is too weak to be a real threat, and even Dean can see that. Sam thinks even Dean would probably balk at shooting Jackson, weak as he currently is.

“Jacks, you should sit down,” Caitlyn begs. “Back in the car.”

“So you can all talk behind my back?” he wheezes. “Not happening.”

“No one’s talking about you,” Mark says. “We just don’t want you passin’ out.”

Jackson shakes his head. “This thing is killing me?” he asks Sam. Sam nods. “Then let’s get back to talking about how to kill it, yeah?”

“We could try praying again,” Sam says. “See if Cas answers this time.” It was the very first thing they tried as the Darkness settled, even before the dug the Impala out of the pothole. It didn’t work. Evidently, the Darkness interferes with their ability to communicate with angels.

“No go,” Dean says. “Been praying off and on since we got here.”

It feels like a little bit of a punch to the gut, that Dean would do that and not tell him. But of course, it makes sense. Sam should have been doing it too, on the off-chance they managed to make contact with Cas. Really, Dean just did the smart thing.

“Summoning?” Dean asks.

“You think _Crowley_ is going to help us?” Sam asks. “I did kinda piss him off by trying to kill him.”

Dean’s eyes light on him immediately. “You _what_?” he demands, voice rough.

Sam shrugs. “It was Rowena’s condition. An easy one to give. Considering all the times he’s fucked us over. He _brought_ you to Cain, Dean. Set you up on that!”

“We needed the Mark!” Dean snaps. “To kill Abaddon!”

“Why? Because she was pissing Crowley off?” Sam asks.

“Because she was evil!” Dean says, hands waving exasperatedly. “Sam, Jesus, if it’s evil, we kill it. Or did you forget?”

Sam deflates a bit. He thought Dean had more important things to do right then. Like worry about the brother recovering from near death, needles in his head, and a double possession. Like worrying about the brother who watched people die at his own hands and not be able to stop it. Like not get involved in hell’s political war. But they’re hunters. And they kill evil.

Which brings him back to his original point, he supposes. “Crowley is the king of hell, Dean,” Sam reminds him. “He’s pretty evil. So yeah, I tried to kill him.”

“You’re Rowena’s bitch, doing her bidding,” Dean says.

Sam opens his mouth to remind Dean that he only killed Abaddon because Crowley pushed him to it, but he closes it again. Dean will never see it that way. “Crowley’s been on my ‘to-off’ list for a long time,” he says instead. “I just was supposed to get something out of the deal. But Rowena’s hexbag wasn’t powerful enough. He’s alive, and pissed.”

“So no summoning one of the most powerful things we know, because you were an idiot who pissed him off,” Dean surmises. “Fine. We’re stuck here with nothing. Got any bright ideas, sherlock?”

Sam shrugs. He doesn’t. The Darkness, despite being sluggish, undernourished, and slow as it is, is a formidable enemy. It’s ancient. They know nothing about it. And it took five of the most powerful beings on the planet to cage it last time.

“We should bring the poor boy home,” Harriet says firmly. “Think on the way, but Jackson should be with family. Maybe you should stay too, Caitlyn, dear.”

Even Dean has to agree with that plan, considering how desperately he wants to get rid of Jackson, so they load back into their cars. This time, Caitlyn takes the lead, guiding them to her house.

Caitlyn and Jackson’s mom opens the door as soon as the cars all pull into her driveway, peering out fearfully. Sam wishes they had good news for her.

James and Keiran together carry Jackson inside. Sam suspects one of them alone could do it, considering he probably weighs something frighteningly close to what Laura weighs right then, but they share the weight between him, holding him level.

They bring him inside, and everyone else awkwardly hangs around outside for a moment before Cheryl seems to pull herself together. “Well, come on,” she snaps. “We can’t leave them without any explanation. And I want to see if I can do something for him.”

Harriet shrugs and follows Cheryl inside, and everyone else follows suit, filing into the too-small living room, where Jackson lays on a faded old couch.

His mom stands over him, lips pressed in a tight line. Caitlyn has an arm around her. “What did this to my boy?” she demands.

“It touched him,” Mark says quietly.

She covers her mouth with her hand for a moment. “It can do that?” she whispers, looking furtively around her. “But… we’re all…”

“Sam thinks it’s concentrating its power on the edges,” Keiran says. “So it can expand. It’s… different out there. Alive. And he got unlucky.”

She looks down at her child, and Sam wants to disappear. This woman shouldn’t have to watch her son die.

Harriet moves to stand near the woman. “He might say some awful things,” she cautions her. “It’s not him talking, remember that. It’s the sickness. Your boy is sick.”

Caitlyn and Jackson’s father stomps down the stairs. “Did you find anything?” he demands as soon as he realizes who is in the living room.

“No,” Billie says, a tad sullen.

“Dad…” Caitlyn says, and the plaintive tone draws her father’s eyes over. She points, and he gasps, pushing through the crowd to get to his son.

Sam doesn’t want to hear the explanation twice. He wanders away, back outside, to sit on their porch.

It might have been a good view, once upon a time. It seems positioned to look over the wide open fields, if one wishes, and Sam imagines sitting here at sunset. Only there is no sunset anymore. There is no sun.

Sam starts to think about what will destroy the Darkness outside of a whole lot of power they don’t have. Mass suicide might do it. If they can cut off any chance it has at a food supply, at regaining the energy it lost when God locked it up, then maybe it will stay limited to this area, never gain enough strength to really spread, really become formidable.

Sam shivers. The resulting deaths would outpass Jonestown. It doesn’t bear thinking about, not if there’s a single other solution even remotely available to try. He doesn’t even know why he thought of it, truth be told. He supposes his brain is just spinning, spinning, desperate to gain traction and failing miserably, at this point.

The bench he’s on moves slightly when someone else sits. Sam looks over to see Laura, looking out at the Darkness with him.

“Had to leave?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I’ve never seen anybody die before,” she admits quietly. “Even Mom. I was too little to remember. It’s… scary.”

Sam supposes it would be. It still is, really, and Sam has seen countless people die. “Yeah,” he agrees. “No shame in needing to leave. He’s with the people who care about him most, and that’s what matters.”

She’s silent for a minute, and Sam’s not quite sure what she’s watching, considering that the Darkness blinds them to just about everything more than a few feet away, but she’s watching it intently nonetheless.

“Do you think it’s going to come get us?” she says. “I mean, look what it’s doing to Jackson. But soon… it won’t be able to anymore, right? And it’ll need more? And it knows we’re here now.”

The thoughts crossed Sam’s mind numerous times. He shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. He doesn’t want to lie to the girl. Their world could be about to end at any second. Besides, she’s seventeen. At seventeen, Sam knew all sorts of awful truths, and while he doesn’t think the way he was raised is a model to use for others in any regard, he does think it’s important. Laura’s seventeen, and she’s electing to be here, risking her life. She’s old enough to know the risks, to know the truth.

“The thing is,” he continues, “the car could spin out and we could die tomorrow, or this thing could actually be one giant lightning cloud and it could fry us all. Or the water could be poisoned, or the air could stop being breathable. Anything can happen, Laura. And that sucks, but…you can’t let it stop you from doing your thing, you know? Just gotta keep going. Hope things stay good until you can fix them.”

She nods. After a moment, she says, “Besides, if we stop now, worrying about something that might not happen, we’ll all probably die. We need to do something.”

Sam nods. She’s a smart kid. “Got any plans?” he asks, keeping his voice as light as he can.

She looks over at him now. “Isn’t that your job?”

Sam shrugs. “Dean’s, mostly,” he corrects. “Don’t worry. We’ll get something together.”

There’s a cut-off scream from inside and Laura jumps. “He’s going to die soon, isn’t he?” she asks.

“Yes,” Sam says. “Probably. I--I wish I could save him, Laura. But I don’t know how.”

She nods. “It’s not your fault.”

“It sort of is,” Sam says, compelled to be honest, because when this is all over, however it ends, Laura deserves to know full well who to blame. “I was the one who dragged you all into this. Dean was right, we shouldn’t have let civilians tag along.”

She shrugs. “I was there. We didn’t let you leave. We want to help.”

“What you want isn’t always good for you,” Sam says.

“Well, that’s bullshit,” Billie says from the doorway. Sam jumps. He didn’t even hear her come out, too wrapped up in Laura.

Billie moves to lean against the porch railing, facing them and blocking their view. “We all made a choice, Sam,” she says. “And if you think for a minute what you think is more important than what I think--”

Sam shakes his head. “No! I don’t mean--it’s just, we’re qualified for this. It’s what we do, alright? It always is.”

“You’re not qualified,” Billie says bitingly. “If you were qualified, you’d actually know what you’re doing. Which you don’t.”

Billie doesn’t seem to be one to pull any punches. Then again, Sam supposes he doesn’t deserve any softening of blows. He nods, accepting her point. “Fair,” he says. “I just mean, this is what we do. We hunt things like this. Even if it’s something we’ve never seen before. Big bads never seen on earth for millions of years are kinda our specialty.”

“How’d you get that kind of speciality?” Laura asks.

Sam shrugs. “We’re always there when things go bad. It’s always--” he hesitates a moment, but they deserve to know the truth, “--my fault. Usually. Not always, but usually.”

“Was this thing your fault?” Billie asks, eyeing Sam hard.

Laura looks at her. “I’m sure Sam didn’t mean--”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ what he meant!” she seethes. “Look at us! Stuck here, waiting to die! I’ll never see my mom again, kid, okay? And all because he can’t keep it together.”

Sam nods. “You’re right,” he says. “No, you’re right. This is my fault. I wanted to save Dean. And I did, sort of, but the consequences…well, this is it. My fault. And we’re gonna fix it.” Or die trying, he thinks, but doesn’t say in front of Laura. Some things aren’t worth thinking about if you don’t have to, he figures.

“What were you saving Dean from?” Laura asks after a minute.

“The Mark of Cain,” Sam says quietly. “You know…well, maybe you don’t. The Bible doesn’t get it quite right. Cain believed Abel was talking to Lucifer, and he made a deal. With, uh, the devil. He’d kill his brother, Abel gets a straight shot to heaven, Cain gets branded as hell’s minion forever. Only, you can pass the Mark on, and Dean got it. Which basically meant increased rage and violence, shorter temper, saying stuff he normally wouldn’t say aloud otherwise, generally being a bit of a dick. Hurting people. Oh, and turning into a demon when he died.”

Laura looks alarmed. “And you can just… get that?” she asks. “Is that a thing I should be worried about? Is it contagious or something?”

Sam finds it in himself to find that at least a little funny. He laughs a little. “No,” he promises her. “This,” he says, gesturing around to the Darkness, “means it’s gone forever anyways. I obliterated the last Mark of Cain on Earth when I took it from Dean. Turns out, _God_ built the Mark. As a sort of key, to keep the Darkness back. And now--it’s out. Which means no more Mark,” he finishes, trying to offer a bit of a comforting smile. He’s relatively sure he fails. “Besides,” he continues, “You couldn’t just _get_ it. You had to be seen as _worthy_. And ask for it, I guess. It was a transfer. It was a choice.”

“You mean your idiot brother chose that?” Billie asks. “I’m starting to think you’re both morons. And anyways, that makes this shit his fault too. Because he chose that, and he needed saving from it.”

Sam shakes his head. “He had his own plan. It didn’t involve getting rid of the Mark.”

“What was his brilliant plan that you messed up then?” Billie asks, eyebrow raised.

“He got an old, powerful friend to agree to dump him somewhere where he couldn’t hurt anyone,” Sam says. “Problem solved. The condition was the powerful friend wanted to see me dead first.”

Laura gasps. Billie rolls her eyes. “He’s alive, kid,” she reminds her. “Obviously, they didn’t go through with it.”

“Well, I mean, I agreed,” Sam says, almost defensively. They had tried other plans than the one that brought about this destruction, and some part of him wants them to know that. “Once Dean got me to see how selfish I was being--he was a danger to others, I knew it. He could be saved, but not when there were people to tempt him. So I agreed.”

“But Dean refused to kill his brother,” Billie says, completing the story. “Because he is a decent human being.”

Sam shrugs. “Yeah. Changed his mind at the last minute. Missed his swing and killed our friend instead. Not sure why still. And then--well, you know what happened next. This,” he says, waving at the Darkness.

“He planned to kill you? Seriously did? Asked you to die for him?” Laura asks quietly.

Sam shrugs. “It’s what hunters do. We die young and bloody, keeping the world safe. Cleaning up messes.”

Even Billie is looking at him differently now. Sam can’t quite define the look, but he thinks he preferred her hostility. “Sounds like he should be the dead one,” she says. “You know, it being his mess and all.”

Sam shrugs again. “He’s cleaned up after me before. That’s what family does.”

“No, it isn’t,” Laura says, and Billie nods, agreeing with her.

“It’s what Winchesters do, then,” Sam clarifies.

“Maybe Winchesters shouldn’t,” Billie says, voice low.

Maybe Winchesters shouldn’t do a lot of things. Sam’s voiced those complaints more times than he cares to count, on more subjects than he can even remember anymore. Maybe they should live in one place. Maybe they shouldn’t steal. Maybe they should look to be safe. Maybe they shouldn’t kill what isn’t killing first. Maybe Dean should listen to him sometimes. Maybe they deserve lives. Maybe Sam deserves a voice.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. It never changes anything. Just gives him a whole pile of maybes that will never, ever happen.

He shrugs. “It is what it is,” he says.

Laura and Billie both open their mouths, but they’re interrupted by Mark, poking his head around the door. “Dean wants you,” he says.

Sam swallows and stands. Time to get down to business and not think about stupid maybes.

Jackson is still on the couch, his mother, father, and sister all crowded around him. Everyone else is nowhere to be seen, and Mark leads them into the kitchen, where they’re all piled in. Dean sits at the head of the little table, Keiran and James sitting with him. Harriet’s taken the final chair, looking defiant. Cheryl, Billie, Laura, Mark, and Sam all stand around.

“‘Bout time you came back in,” Dean says. “Or did you forget we have work to do?” he looks directly at Sam as he makes his comments, and Sam fights not to squirm.

“What work?” Billie demands. “Thought we had nothin’.”

Dean shrugs. “We’ll figure something out. We always do. Jackson’s out there dying because of this thing. We need to take it down. For him.”

Sam frowns at that, and Harriet voices his thoughts. “Yesterday, you wanted to kill the boy,” she says.

“I don’t let dangerous things live,” Dean says. “That doesn’t mean what happened to him is okay.”

Sam’s still frowning, but he lets it go. They have a Darkness to destroy, after all.


	3. Chapter Three

Two hours later they have no plan. It’s not surprising, given how little they have. They have no books, no research. No angels, no access to heaven. No access to the Bunker. No access to other hunters. Death is dead now, thanks to Dean. They are utterly on their own against the oldest creature in the universe, and Sam is sure it is expanding by the moment, sucking Jackson dry as it does so.

Sam has to wonder if their _don’t touch_ message got out in time, or if other people accidentally gave the Darkness something to latch on to too. In which case, people might be dying all over the place, and the Darkness might have plenty of energy to grow off of.

The only workable plan they have is Sam’s suggestion that they try out everything in the Impala’s trunk against the Darkness.

“We can’t get near it,” Mark reminds him, looking uncomfortable, like Sam has suggested a suicide mission.

Sam shakes his head. “We can shoot at it,” he says. “Silver, salt, blessed iron...witches’ brew, I don’t know. Maybe there’s something it doesn’t like. And that wouldn’t hurt to know.”

Everyone has to concede that’s a decent idea. “In the morning,” Cheryl says. “It’s getting late.”

Sam and Dean both look at their watches and frown. It’s not that late, just after nine. But people are hungry and sleep is important, right now, for keeping them on top of their game.

So they go out to the cars and deal out dinner--cans of peaches and slices of bread and halves of bananas make it around tonight--bringing the food back inside so they can eat in the dim glow of the one electric light on in the kitchen. It seems people are trying to save what power there is. Sam isn’t sure it will do much, but, he supposes, given the circumstances, doing anything feels good.

Cheryl finishes first. “I’m going to go check on him,” she announces. Her lower lip is trembling slightly, and Sam feels for her. She’s a school nurse. At worse, she deals with sudden onset appendicitis and the flu and maybe a kid who fell down the stairs and managed to break their leg badly. But people physically wasting away before her eyes is something new.

“I’ll come,” he says. “Help you if you need.”

She looks at him, surprised, but then nods gratefully. James grabs Sam’s arm as he passes. “You sure?” he asks. Sam nods. “Alright. Call us--Keiran and I--well, we’ve seen some shit too.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, although he has no intention of calling anyone in, like this is something they have to switch off shifts for. He follows Cheryl into the other room.

Caitlyn and her parents are still sitting with Jackson, so they’re half-blocking Sam’s view. But they move aside for Cheryl and Sam, and Sam gets his first view of Jackson in a couple of hours.

It’s even worse. Sam wonders if the Darkness always works this fast or if it’s just particularly desperate for sustenance right now, but he knows better than to bring that thought pattern up in front of the family. Jackson’s just skin and bones now, and Sam imagines his organs are starting to fail. Sam’s seen lots of bodies destroyed in lots of gross ways, but this is definitely up there as one of the worst.

Cheryl’s had basic medical equipment in her car, and she’s apparently moved it beside Jackson’s makeshift hospital bed. She pulls out a stethoscope and listens to his heart, then his lungs.

Sam watches her shake her head and feels his gut clench. They are going to lose this kid. Maybe Dean was right, and maybe it would have been kinder to shoot him.

Jackson groans. “Leave me alone,” he manages to mumble, words slurred together.

“Shush,” his mother says. “Let her take care of you, baby.”

“G’way,” Jackson says. “Never loved me anyways…”

She breaks out into fresh tears at that. By the way her face is already streaked, Sam assumes they’re not her first since they arrived.

Cheryl moves away from the couch, then closer to Sam. “Couple hours, I would guess,” she says. “But… I don’t know. I honestly don’t.” Her eyes are wide and she’s shaking slightly. Sam takes her closest hand and squeezes it.

“You’re doing the best you can,” he says. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

“Maybe someone better could… save him, or… at least help with the pain,” she says.

Sam swallows. Maybe. But he’s not going to say that. She’s what they have, and she’s doing everything she can. “No one knows how to fight the Darkness,” he says. “I don’t think… this is why we have to stop it.”

“What if we can’t?” she asks quietly.

Sam doesn’t answer. Jackson lies just feet away from them, and he’s answer enough.

She nods. “I’m going to stay with him,” she says. “I’ll sleep here.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “I’ll find out who’s on watch tonight.”

They decide Harriet first, then Billie. Harriet sets up at the door, and Cheryl rolls out her sleeping bag right next to Jackson. The family refuses to leave, setting up on the other couch and the two chairs in the room. Everyone else takes the floor, finding a little corner of space and settling into it.

Sam sets up right by Cheryl, in case she needs help during the night, for whatever reason. He crawls into his sleeping bag and closes his eyes, listening to the outpouring of breaths around him. Dean’s a few people away, but he can still pick out Dean’s breathing over everything. He listens to it. It’s still calming, even after everything, to know his brother is right there.

He wonders what it’s going to be like when this is all over. Maybe this time, for real, it will be over. They’ll have taken out the Darkness, if they win. What’s left after that?

He imagines them as regular hunters again--or, really, if he’s honest, for the first time ever. No angels, no demons, no leviathans, no Mark, no Darkness. Nothing but them and the job.

He wonders what that will even leave. What’s left between them, besides desperation and fear? He’s pretty sure Dean won’t dump him like yesterday’s trash, at least right away. Dean wants him around, the whole thing with shoving Gadreel inside of him proves it. Sam leaving Dean is something Dean just can’t tolerate. But what in Sam is good enough to be appealing once the disasters are over? He knows Dean doesn’t like him much anymore, and he gets why, he’s just not sure what that’s going to mean for them, after all this--

Maybe he can prove himself. Maybe he can earn whatever’s missing back from Dean. He’s tried and failed so many times before. But maybe he can. This time. Maybe.

Someone snores. James, Sam thinks. Everyone is falling asleep around him, breaths evening out. Even Jackson might be asleep; at the very least, he’s quiet.

He should sleep too. It always seems to come slower to him than most anyone else, though.

Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to match his breathing to his brother’s. He can’t quite fall into step with him, but it evens out his breathing enough to make him sleepy.

He dozes.

 

The breathing pattern in the room changes, and Sam’s awake almost instantly, sitting upright, looking around. Harriet’s still at the door, unaware that there’s anything wrong. No one else is awake yet, either. Even Jackson’s mother, asleep in the chair by Jackson’s head, is still asleep.

But Jackson is… something is wrong, Sam realizes. Something is very wrong. His breathing is suddenly loud and incredibly labored. He shakes Cheryl awake.

She jerks upright. “What’s goin’ on?” she mumbles.

Sam just points, and it only takes her a second to process what he means.

She jumps up, waking everyone around her in the process, and is immediately bending over Jackson, checking his pulse, his breathing.

She shakes her head, and Sam knows then. Jackson’s time is up.

Everyone is awake and watching them now, except Jackson’s mother, who is huddled at the head of the couch, watching her son’s face, crying again.

The labored sounds of breathing begin to decrease. Sam hopes for a split second that they’re returning to normal, but they keep slowing, growing more and more ragged and more and more quiet, fading away entirely.

Then they stop. Cheryl looks at Sam, shaking her head again. “It’s…” she begins.

“No,” Sam says. “No. He might… we just have to… does he have a pulse?” he asks.

Cheryl checks, and nods. “It’s weak,” she murmurs. “Sam, he’s…”

“Not yet,” Sam says forcefully.

“Kinder to let him go, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam jumps. He hadn’t realized Dean had come up right behind him. “Look at him. Time to let him go.”

Jackson’s mom cries harder, and Caitlyn’s cries add to the noise.

“Not if there’s a chance,” Sam snarls. “Not if we can…”

Dean narrows his eyes. “ _Now_ it’s okay to save people?” he asks.

Sam all but snarls, _because what does Dean think he did for the past year_? But it’s not the time to get into a fight. They don’t have a moment to spare. “Did he ask to die?” he says. “No. Maybe we can keep him going long enough to save him. For him to make a choice. Anything.”

He doesn’t waste another moment, just tilts Jackson’s head back and begins administering breaths. He hasn’t been CPR certified since a course he took with Jess all those years ago, but he keeps a general idea in his mind of how to do it by refreshing himself on the internet. It’s a good skill to have.

He counts out thirty breaths, then checks. Still nothing, and he thinks the pulse is weakening. He starts again, then repeats once more.

He’s growing tired by then, but he’s far from giving up. His limits do not lie in ninety breaths.

He checks his pulse, and it’s gone. Sam swallows. “You do chest compressions?” he asks Cheryl. She looks hesitant, but nods.

They try twice more, moving through two complete cycles before Cheryl stops him with a hand to his shoulder. “Sam,” she says gently, “Sam, you need to stop.”

He looks around. “Switch?” he gasps.

She shakes her head. “Sam, we need to stop. He’s gone.”

Sam knows it’s true. Knew it was coming. It doesn’t make it easier to accept.

_Ever think you’re just dragging someone else to their death?_

Sam swallows. And now he has to live with it. But at least he’s not Jackson. Jackson had to die for it, and Sam should never forget it, because he let these people come, didn’t protect them from what’s out there. He let the Darkness out in the first place, too. Everything, all of this, is on him…

Cheryl gently uses the hand on his shoulder to pull him backwards until he gets the hint and moves. The family rushes into the space he vacated, crowding around their dead brother and son. Sam watches them, lump in his throat.

He finally manages to look around the dark room. Dean’s looking away. James and Keiran look merely resigned. Mark too looks resigned, if a little sick. Harriet is watching the mother with a sad sort of expression on her face. Cheryl’s face has crumpled, and Sam imagines that, as a school nurse, she’s never lost a patient before. Laura has her head buried in her hands, her shoulders wracking. Billie is trying to comfort the younger girl, rubbing her back, but tears are leaking down her cheeks too, and Sam suddenly understands that, outside of the veterinary clinic where Billie interns and the mother’s death Laura can’t remember, neither of those children--and they are children, still so young and they don’t deserve to have this thrust upon them--have seen death before. He feels a little sick at the thought, that they had to watch this.

Sam gets up, moving towards the kitchen they all sat in earlier. He doesn’t bother turning on the light, just sits in the dark and stares at the grain of the wooden table that he can barely distinguish.

_Now it’s okay to save people?_

Sam swallows. He never knows what his brother wants. Don’t save him from hell. Wait, save him. Don’t bring him back. How did Sam not know that agreement was a non-agreement. How dare Sam not look for Dean. How dare Sam not want to live at the cost of being possessed. How dare Sam track down his demon brother and turn him back. Sam’s doing bad for saving him. Sam wouldn’t save him. Sam would do anything to save him and therefore needs to die. He can’t keep up.

But he knows in his gut that trying to save Jackson was the right thing to do. Maybe Dean’s right, maybe it would have been kinder to let him go. But he didn’t ask for that. It was his decision to make.

Sam swallows. In the end, death is the only one making decisions. Except there is no more Death, because Dean killed him. So, Sam supposed, everything is a shit show now, a dice toss, with no one left at all pulling the strings.

He hears footsteps and tenses, because he knows those footsteps as well as he knows his own heartbeat. Maybe better.

“Hey,” Dean says when it becomes apparent Sam isn’t going to speak. “You good?”

Sam shrugs. No. He’s not good. He is so far from good. Everything is so far from good.

“I’m fine,” he lies. But it’s a safe lie. It’s what Dean needs to, wants to, hear. He wants to know that Sam is fine, that Sam isn’t weak, that Sam can keep fighting this alongside him.

Dean nods, then sits across from Sam. He too doesn’t bother to turn on the light, but with only a couple feet between them and the soft glow from the next room, Sam can see this brother well enough.

“Good,” he says. “‘Cause we gotta fight this, Sammy.”

I know, Sam wants to say. _What do you think we’ve all been trying to do?_ But he doesn’t. Dean’s just as frustrated, lost, confused, and broken down by this as they all are.

“It’s not your fault he died,” Dean says out of the blue.

Sam starts. “Yes, it is,” he blurts out.

“You didn’t kill him,” Dean says simply.

Sam grits his teeth, because why is it never a straight answer? Why is it always this back and forth, why can he never get a grip on the rules? Why?

“I brought them along,” he says simply, reminding Dean. “You were right. They’re untrained civilians. We should’ve left them behind.”

Dean sighs so largely that his shoulders physically heave. “Sammy,” he says abruptly, “you know what it’s like to have that Mark?”

“No, Dean, I don’t,” Sam responds. _I’ve been asking, begging, you to talk for more than a year. Why now? What is this?_

“It’s like… knowing you can’t fuck up,” Dean says after a moment. “Fuck ups are on someone else. Everything you do, everything you think… it’s right. It just is.”

“Okay,” Sam says, trying to be patient but so past the point where seemingly rambly sentiments hold much value to him. Someone’s dead. It’s his fault. Again. And now Dean wants to talk about the Mark of Cain, a Mark that’s been removed.

“You don’t understand,” Dean says, voice tinged with something Sam might think akin to desperation on anyone else. “It’s not… it doesn’t give you that. It just makes that little voice louder, okay? Cain said it upfront. I earned the Mark. I was always the type.” He snorts and shakes his head, staring at the table. “The kind who was already pretty in tune with that voice, I guess.”

From what Sam knows about Cain, and Lucifer, and even, as difficult as it is to admit, Dean, it makes sense. What Dean’s saying isn’t anything the voice in the back of Sam’s head, the one he usually tries to shut up in the process of going on to get along, has been able to tell for years.

“Anyways,” Dean continues abruptly. “I’m… used to listening to that voice. It’s loud, okay? Harder to tune out than it used to be. And it was never… yeah. I’m working on it.”

“It was never what?” Sam asks quietly.

Dean looks at him for half a second before looking back at the table. “Never easy to ignore. Always there,” he clarifies. “You know me, Sammy. That’s who I am.”

Sam nods. “It is,” he agrees. “Not… not always without reason,” he allows, because he’s heard all the reasons and he’s seen the two of them as a side-by-side comparison and there is a _reason_ Dean has a voice in his head telling him he’s almost always right. “But… yeah. Why now?” Sam asks. “If it’s always been there, why now?”

Dean shrugs. “Guess I’ve seen… how bad it can get,” he says. “Somethin’s gotta change, I guess.”

Sam doesn’t respond. Dean’s made promises before. They usually fall through. Things usually end up just as they were, for one reason or another.

But then again… maybe Dean is serious this time. Maybe he means it. Maybe the Mark and all that came with it--the rage, the murder, the beatings, the almost killing Sam, the act of being so out of control he murdered Death--have startled Dean into at least seriously trying.

“I’ll help,” Sam promises softly. “If I can. However I can.”

Dean doesn’t respond to that, but Sam knows he heard him.

“Anyways,” Dean says, shifting in his seat. “Jackson’s death. Not your fault, Sam. Maybe they would’ve been better off without us, maybe they needed to come. But…you’re right. They chose it. Just like anyone else getting into hunting. We’ve seen it. Not everyone survives it. And that’s just how it is.”

“I let the Darkness out,” Sam reminds him.

“Yeah, you did,” Dean agrees, and Sam nods, resigned. “And I asked you not to do that. But I get where--I get it. I was a danger. It was the only real plan then. And… you didn’t know. You fucked up, but…” He sighs. “I know why you did it.” He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “What I don’t get is--you tried to save him.”

Sam shrugs. “Yes?”

Dean looks at him hard, the whites of his eyes cutting through the dim light. “I thought…”

You never listen, Sam thinks, but he keeps it to himself. “He didn’t make a choice,” he says simply. “Maybe you were right and he was better off dead, but he didn’t choose that. It’s his choice, Dean.”

“I made a choice,” Dean says quietly.

Sam shakes his head. _You made a lot of choices. A lot of different choices. I can never keep up._ “You were pissed when you thought I wouldn’t save you,” Sam says. “Then you were pissed when I tried my damndest to save you. I can never figure it out, Dean. Besides…” he hesitates a moment. “I guess becoming a demon is sorta a choice, but not once I can just let lie, you know? Wanting to die… that doesn’t hurt people. Demons do.”

Dean tilts his head to one side, acknowledging the statement. “You did save me,” he acknowledges. “After everything…”

“After what?” Sam challenges.

“After you said you wouldn’t,” Dean says bitterly. “Forget that already?”

“I think you’re the one who needs a reminder,” Sam says as non-aggressively as he can. He doesn’t want this to become a fight. But Dean seems more open to listening than he has in… years, probably, and Sam wants to see if he can get through this time. If maybe this is some part of the brother he’s wanted back so badly. “I said I wouldn’t do to you what you did to me. And I wouldn’t, Dean. You have no idea what it’s like to be possessed. Have your memories taken away. Completely controlled. Have no idea what’s going on. You have no idea what it’s like to find the one person you trusted most is behind it all. I hope you never, ever figure out what that’s like. I wouldn’t do that to you. I couldn’t. But that won’t stop me from saving you.”

Dean doesn’t seem entirely convinced somehow, so Sam presses on. “Dean,” he says earnestly, leaning forward across the table, “Death wanted me dead because he knew I would never stop trying to find a way to save you. Does that--you believed him, or seemed to. How can you know that but believe I ever meant I would just let you die?”

Dean shrugs. “I was hurt, okay?” he snaps. “You just--I saved your life and that’s what you gave me back.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. He wonders if he should apologize, maybe make everything go away, but he decides against it. If Dean is serious about turning over a new leaf, maybe that won’t be necessary. “Dean, you… can’t you see how I felt? He _possessed_ me. Erased my memories. Made me think I was losing it again. Can’t you see past what you wanted for five minutes?”

“Can’t you see--this is all about you and me, carrying on, fighting the good fight?” Dean shoot back.

Sam shakes his head. “Maybe it is. But maybe it shouldn’t be. I was--Dean, I just want to know my body, my life, is mine. I’ve chosen hunting. I have. But it has to be my choice. Everything I do has to be my choice.”

Dean’s dead silent, the type of silence that hangs over the air, a guillotine about to drop, and Sam knows he’s pushed too far. He’s pushed too hard, asked too much, and he’s broken something. To what extent, and how it will manifest, remains to be seen. Sam just hopes it’s something easily dealt with.

Before he can find out, Harriet pokes her head around into the kitchen. “They’re planning to bring the body to the funeral home, see if they can still work,” she explains. “Unless… is an autopsy necessary?”

“No,” Sam says after a moment’s hesitation. “But…”

“But we can’t just clean him up and put him in a casket,” Dean says. “He’s been touched by the Darkness. Only way to be sure it’s gone is to burn the corpse.”

“Do you really need to put this poor family through that?” she asks, voice hard.

“We really do,” Sam says gently. “We wouldn’t ask if we didn’t. Burning the body is the only way to ensure whatever piece of the Darkness in it can’t keep him.”

She sighs, and then nods. The light from the living room shines around her outline, but it’s not illuminating her facial features. Sam wonders what she’s thinking. “Fine. You tell them.”

Dean stands. “Have to get a pyre ready,” he says softly.

Sam nods. “I’ll get some help.”

 

In the end, Dean explains to the family while Sam, James, Keiran, Mark, Laura, and Billie collect wood, a task made difficult by the fact that all the gathering has to be done by flashlight. Despite this, they don’t really need six people. But no one wants to be inside, considering that cries can be heard from the porch.

Dean’s not only telling the family they plan to cremeate their son, but he also has to more fully introduce the supernatural to their worldview all in one go. Sam feels for him; that’s no easy task.

Cheryl and Harriet have apparently designated themselves as the family’s guardians and caretakers. Sam saw Harriet glare at Dean before he walked out, but Sam knows that what Dean has to say is indisputable truth. Maybe the Darkness in Jackson died with him, but maybe not. And it’s always better to burn a body.

Sam helps guide the others into building a proper pyre, a task almost mechanical to him by now. Lots of hunters die. As long as he doesn’t think of its final purpose--the body burnt to ash on top--then he can build it without a single flicker of emotion.

The last pyre he built was Charlie’s, though. There’s been too much death, too much death on him--and whatever Dean says, it will always be on him, he knows it and he’s sure Dean knows it--lately.

Then again, there will be more death soon, and that too will be on him, if he doesn’t pull it together, get through this, and find a way out. This is just how it is. People die. They punish themselves for the ones they can’t save, they carry it with them, but they move on, because there are always others to be saved.

They get the pyre built, and then James and Keiran go to help get the body outside. Everyone comes trailing out, James holding Jackson in the front. If he looked small on the couch, he looks even more wasted away against James’ muscled chest.

Everyone backs off for a few minutes, letting the family have some time with him. Sam turns away entirely, and Harriet approaches. “You think you’d be used to this,” she says quietly.

“You’d think,” Sam responds. “But you never…”

She nods. “I think if you get too used to it, something’s gone horribly wrong,” she says. “You may grow less sensitive to it to protect yourself--although you don’t seem to have been able to do that, my boy. But if you stop feeling it altogether…”

“Then you’re not much more than the monsters we hunt,” Sam agrees. “Still. I wish I… I should have never let you all come along.”

“I told that brother of yours and I’ll tell you,” she says harshly. “We made a choice. And it was ours.”

Sam supposes he has to accept that. He knows that reasoning well enough. He nods. “You’re right,” he says. “I still wish he was alive.”

She squeezes his arm gently. “As do we all,” she says.

She turns away from him to look back at the pyre. “I’ve been to too many funerals,” she says, voice laced with bitterness for a moment.

Sam turns around too, looking back at the scene. It’s the least he can do to this family he owes so much.

Dean hands Caitlyn a lighter, but her hands are shaking so much that she can’t get it lit. Finally, Dean takes it back and lights it and, with a nod from the family, throws the tool onto the pyre. It catches almost at once, spreading rapidly.

The light is shocking. Sam realizes he expected the Darkness to swallow up even the firelight, although he doesn’t know why. The electric lights still work, and so do the battery powered lanterns and flashlights and car headlights, even if they’re dimmed in the attempts to cut through the smoky Darkness.

But the fire isn’t like that. It’s bright and alive, and perhaps the color and light doesn’t spread as far as it usually would, but the area around the pyre and the body is so striking it leaves a bright imprint on Sam’s retinas, even as he looks away.

He feels guilty, watching a body burn but somehow, paradoxically, seeing light really cut through the Darkness, feeling that hope, for the first time.

Everyone backs off, leaving the family with their dead, returning to the porch, close enough to be there should they be needed, far enough to give space.

Sam notices he’s not the only one watching the flames, still bright enough for them to see even through the dozen or so yards of Darkness. The people all but melt away after a few feet, disappearing into the Darkness around them all, but the pyre and the immense light it produces cannot be ignored.

“We gotta stop this,” Laura says, the first time, Sam thinks, that she’s spoken since Jackson passed away.

Dean nods. “That’s the plan, kid.”

“What plan?” Billie asks, grief and fear not numbing her attitude, apparently. Sam’s almost glad. Maybe they need her kick in the pants.

Dean shrugs, then turns towards Sam. “Sammy wants to test some weapons out. Don’t’cha, Sam?”

Sam nods. It still seems like a solid idea. Maybe something can harm the Darkness. Maybe it has a weakness.

“We gonna leave?” Mark asks, and Sam sees his head turn out towards the family.

“Once the pyre’s burned down and their son’s ashes are gathered for burial,” Harriet says, tone not accepting any argument, not even from Dean. “Don’t tell me we don’t have time to waste. I know very well what could happen. This thing could come after us at any moment. But if we can’t look out for our own, then it’s pointless anyway, isn’t it?”

No one can quite disagree with her. So, stuck around as they are, they all disperse, some of them attempting to get more sleep, some just looking for a place to rest. There’s a wide open couch now, but no one touches it.

Laura and her Dad both manage to fall asleep, Billie moving her sleeping bag so she’s only a few feet away from them. Cheryl passes out in an armchair. Harriet elects to stay on the porch and, surprisingly, Dean stays out there with her.

Soon enough, only James, Keiran, and Sam are left awake. Sam motions towards the kitchen and the other two follow him, leaving the room quiet for those who can manage to get some more sleep.

Keiran rubs a hand over his face. “Wild night,” he says.

“Is it still night?” James asks.

The clock on the stove glows. Sam nods. “Three forty five,” he supplies.

“Fucking great,” James mutters. “Not even sunrise to look forward to.”

“Maybe a way out,” Keiran points out. “At least there’s that.”

“At least there’s that,” James acknowledges. He’s silent for a moment before he says, “Ever think, when I moved here… well, maybe mom was right about stayin’ in Chicago with a nice girl.”

Keiran’s quiet for a moment. “Do you really…?” he asks.

“No,” James says almost immediately. He turns his head to look over at Sam and Sam tries to sink away disappear entirely into the Darkness, but it’s too late. He’s already intruding. James turns away, back to Keiran, but the feeling of intrusion doesn’t lessen. “No, I don’t mean it. I came here for a reason, Keir.”

“Not this,” Keiran says, voice sounding almost hollow.

“I followed your ass into the desert,” James says. “Think this is really the worst you can throw at me?”

It is, really, the worst they could throw at him, but Sam’s not going to bring it up. He’s not going to interrupt at all.

Keiran seems to be staring at James. All the lights are off, the only illumination the fire peaking through the window behind James and Keiran, and Sam honestly can’t see his expression, can’t even make out the vaguest outline of facial features. He can guess, though. “I’m glad you’re with me,” he admits.

“Always,” James says. He takes a deep breath, then finally seems to redirect his focus to Sam. “So--what’re we gonna do?”

“Try everything we got,” Sam says. “Every single piece. Silver, iron, salt, witches’ brew. Angel blades, holy water, blessed objects. I’ll try fucking lambs’ blood if I have to,” Sam declares. “Everything.”

“Any of it gonna stick?” Keiran asks.

Sam shrugs. “It might.”

“But?”

Sam hesitates a second. “ _But_ The Darkness is old. Older than iron. Older than silver. Older than modern religious practices. But it’s not older than angels. Because God and the archangels fought it back the first time around.”

“So those angel blade things?” James asks.

“Are probably gonna be like pinpricks to something this big, gaining strength like it is,” Sam concludes. “But maybe really annoying pinpricks. Can’t hurt to try.”

James and Keiran turn to exchange glances, or at least do whatever the equivalent in the near blinding dark is. “Can’t hurt,” James agrees.

“We’ve worked with worse odds,” Keiran adds.

Sam isn’t sure if that’s necessarily true, considering they have no plan, no backup, and no information, but he’s not going to get into the nitty-gritty details. He’s never seen what they consider worse odds, after all. “As soon as the fire burns out and the others wake up, then,” Sam says.

“Right,” James agrees. “You really--burn bodies? Just like that? That’s your thing?”

Sam nods. “Hunter’s funeral,” he explains. “Go out just like everything we hunt. We touch too much evil to be safe to just leave around. Fire cleanses just about everything,” he says. “We burn everyone. Well, I didn’t burn Dean. And he didn’t burn me,” Sam adds.

“Dean… is alive,” Keiran says slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “And so are you.”

Sam wishes he lived in a world where he still believed death is the end of the line. “Sure,” he agrees. “But you’d be surprised… there’s stuff out there that’s so powerful, and if it wants you walking around, it will drag you right back from wherever you are. When Dean died those first couple times, I buried the body. Refused to burn it. I was gonna get something to bring him back… well, something brought him back alright. Always does. Probably will keep doing it. So far, that seems to be the goal. If I can, I’ll make sure there’s a body to get back to.” Sam shrugs. “Hasn’t happened in a while like that though.”

“You’ve died too?” James asks.

Sam shrugs. “Yeah. Lost count. Most times were short,” he explains. “To prove a point. Someone wanted me or Dean or whoever to listen and listen fast. But a few were longer. Couple hours, couple days, eighteen months… you get the idea. Heaven is mediocre. I mean, not awful. You’re happy--some more than others, but then again, I don’t think I was ever meant to be happy in Heaven--but it’s just kinda… blah. But I guess there might be a rebellion in Heaven now?” he says, laughing a bit. “Humans showing the angels what’s what. So, either we’ll die and we’ll get to join in the fight, or, miracle of miracles, we survive this, and it’s sorted out when we all get there.”

“Maybe Jackson’s fighting in Heaven now,” Keiran says.

“Maybe.” It’s unlikely Jackson’s seen through the illusion of his personal Heaven in such a short time, although he might eventually. But if the image of Jackson still fighting comforts them, then he will let them have it.

“Anyways, Heaven might not be that great, but it’s, well… Heaven when compared to Hell. Dean knows Hell better than I do. I’ve only been twice, once for a pretty short stay I don’t much remember and once when I was still alive for a quick rescue mission. I mean, I know the Cage, but that’s not really Hell, you know?” They don’t know, and Sam doesn’t need to see their faces to know that. It doesn’t matter. There’s a point to this. “Yeah, Dean knows Hell better. It sucks. So…even as shaky as it is, Heaven is the place to end up.”

“So be good, play straight, and hope we end up up top?” Keiran asks.

“Or try not to see any of it at all for a bit?” James suggests.

“That might work.” Of course, they could all be dead tomorrow. Really, Sam doesn’t know anymore. He’s not exactly dreading it. His only regret would be all these people, these innocent people who deserve to live full, happy lives, who would be taken down with him.

Then again, Sam’s come close to death and been denied it for so long now. Death is dead. The one person seemingly willing to help take Sam away and be done is dead. Perhaps, then, they’ll all survive this.

Sam wants to be happy about that. Dean wants to start fresh. Everyone will live. There’s always more people to save.

He supposes he’ll just have to see what happens, and not get his hopes up in any particular direction. That always leads to disaster.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, the only noises being snores from the next room and Keiran drumming his fingers on his thigh.

“Your brother still planning to ditch?” James asks.

Keiran snorts. “Harriet’s with him. He’s not going anywhere.”

Once upon a time, a person like Harriet maybe have been able to force Dean to see sense, like Ellen or even Missouri did. Bobby, too, could often get through to Dean. But Dean hasn’t been like that in years. No one makes Dean listen, no one makes him do anything he wasn’t already planning to do.

Then again, he says he’s trying. Maybe he’s trying to find some pieces of the old Dean in the process.

Sam shrugs. “Dean’s trying. He knows you’ve all chosen this. He respects that. It’s just, sometimes it’s hard for him to…” Sam trails off, not sure how to put it.

“To acknowledge that other people have ideas?” James supplies.

Sam shrugs again, not sure if the other two can even make out the gesture, considering he’s not even backed by the firelight creeping through the living room windows and pervading the house like they are. “Yeah,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s been like for him. He’s… Dad put so much on him, and he’s had to carry everything since. And the Mark--it just made it all worse. He’s trying,” he says.

“He should try harder,” James snorts. “Nevermind us. He doesn’t know us. But we’ve seen him talk to you.”

“Yeah, what was your private meeting about earlier?” Keiran asks, and Sam thinks for one wild moment that he hears concern in his tone. “What’d he say?”

“He just… wanted to talk,” Sam says evasively. What goes on between him and Dean is for him and Dean, and he likes these people well enough, but they’re relative strangers. “Explain some things.”

James and Keiran turn to each other again, and Sam wonders if it’s just habit making that gesture, or if they’re really close enough to see each other. “He didn’t… Sam, you can be honest with us,” Keiran says. “He… say anything you didn’t like? Make you feel bad? Hit you again?”

Sam bristles at the again even though it’s technically true. “No,” he says simply. “Look, things haven’t been… great between us for a while, okay? But Dean is trying to fix things. He’s talking to me. Explaining where he’s coming from. We’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure,” James says hesitantly. “You know… we’re all here, okay? We don’t think… Look, you didn’t deny that he hit you, Sam. We all know it, okay? If he hits you, or scares you, or whatever, just tell us. We’ll kick his ass.”

It’s the soldier’s, adult version of the speech a handful of elementary and middle school teachers had given Sam when they saw bruises from training or sleepless circles under his eyes or he’d slipped and said something wrong. _We can help you. You can have something better, something different. Just tell us._

But Sam’s left the life before and it never works out, and he doesn’t even think he can anymore. Who knows what Dean would do. Who knows what _he_ would do.

Family is everything. This is his life. And if Dean is really going to change…

He sighs. “We’re fine,” he says quietly. He can’t see their faces and he knows they can’t see his, but he can feel them staring at him nonetheless. He thinks it might actually be concern, because they could be asleep. They could be sitting here in silence, not bringing up these things at all. But they’re asking, and as misguided and intrusive as it feels, Sam knows they care. “Dean’s trying to be better,” Sam says. “And I think he means it. The Mark scared him. It’ll take a long time. But he’ll try.”

“He’s been riding on you, shitting on you, since you got here,” Keiran says quietly. “You got those cuts and bruises, Sam…”

Sam shakes his head, despite knowing it won’t be seen. “Those were from before the Mark was gone,” he says. “Dean couldn’t stop himself, okay?” Sam closes his eyes, remembering the fear, remembering that little bar and knowing he was about to die, leaving Dean to disintegrate into nothing good. He takes a deep breath. “He won’t--he wouldn’t do that again.” Sam won’t give him a reason.

“And the rest, he’s just… used to being in charge. He has to be. Dad put a lot on him, made him grow up too fast, take care of me, be a hunter. I’ve tried to do things on my own, but I always fuck it up, always. So, Dean has to clean up those messes, make sure I don’t make anymore, take care of this family, keep us hunting. And lately, with the Mark, it’s just been worse. That’s what the Mark does. Makes things like that worse. But it’s gone. And he’s getting better.”

“If he was doing it before the Mark, then that’s not how it works,” James says softly. “Sam, Dean is…”

Sam doesn’t want to hear it. He can guess what James wants to say, and a part of him might agree with it. Dean is sometimes dangerous, and frightening, and controlling. He’s also all Sam has and leaving is long since out of the question.

He stands, bumps the table in his effort to get away but doesn’t stop moving. “I’m going to go check on the fire,” he says abruptly, letting the light from the living room windows guide him out.

Everyone’s still sleeping, so Sam does his best to tiptoe through the room. The fire is clearly still burning, but Sam wants to put more space between himself and conversations he doesn’t want to have. So he quietly opens the front door.

One half of the front porch is taken up by the family, Caitlyn and her parents, all crying and intermittently staring at the flames, as if unable to look away for too long. Sam aches for them, but knows better than to intrude.

The porch is long, stretching the length of the front of the house. On the end opposite the family, Harriet and Dean sit. It looks like they’re been talking, oddly enough.

Sam tried to retreat back inside, not intrude on any of the scenes laid out before him where he doesn’t belong, isn’t welcomed, but Harriet sees him. “Sam,” she says, voice quiet but nonetheless carrying. She motions him over with one hand.

Now seen, Sam goes over as quietly as he can, settling so he can lean against the railing. The firelight might be dim, but right then it’s the brightest thing in their world, and it throws Harriet’s and Dean’s face into vibrant visibility, even as the shadows color it all.

Sam absently thinks for a moment that this dim light, this poor excuse of a lit-up world is taking away the color in his brother’s eyes.

“Everything okay?” Harriet asks.

Sam nods. “Just needed some air,” he explains.

“Shouldn’t be much longer,” Dean says, nodding to the fire behind Sam. Sam turns his head, cricking his neck in the process, and sure enough, it’s burning low now.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, turning his head back and resisting the urge to rub his neck. It won’t help, anyways.

Harriet huffs. “You boys,” she sighs. “And I thought I’d seen bad. No one has anything on you, Winchesters,” she snorts. “I’m going over to see if I can do anything for that poor family,” she announces. "Dean, you have some things to say to your brother."

She doesn’t elaborate, just gets up and moves to the other side of the porch, leaving Sam to stare after her, confused. “What is it?” he finally manages to ask his brother.

“Meddling old woman,” Dean mutters. “Nothing,” he says louder, voice sullen. “She just talked at me. Apparently thinks I need to share with you or something.”

“Should you?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs. “You wanna hear ‘bout how even some old lady thinks I’m a messed up, useless, washed up pain in the ass?” he asks, determinedly not looking at Sam, staring at the floor.

Sam moves to the seat that Harriet vacated. “She didn’t say that,” he says, knowing that much at least. Harriet seems to have problems with Dean, but she wouldn’t say that.

Dean shrugs. “Sounded like it. Close enough.”

Sam sighs. It’s going to take patience and fortitude to cut through whatever spiral Dean is in, but he’s determined to do so. Harriet says Dean has something to say, and he has a feeling that, if she’s pushing him, it probably actually is something Sam wants to hear. “What did she say?” he asks.

“Just that I’m an asshole. That I’ve been hurting you and I’m too selfish to realize or something. That I’m a no good waste of a brother. That she doesn’t know us that well, but she already thinks you should be nominated for sainthood for putting up with me.” Sam’s trying to pick through what of that is what Harriet said and what is Dean’s self-deprecating extrapolations based on what she said when Dean continues. “I mean, no offense, but you, Sammy? Are probably the furthest thing from saint.”

It feels like a fist in Sam’s gut. _Here we go again, always, always back to what I’ve done wrong_. And it’s true; Sam _has_ done wrong, and he knows it. He’s messed up and left Dean to clean up his messes. He knows the lists of what he’s done wrong, he recites it to himself regularly.

“I know I am,” Sam says, trying and failing to fake a laugh. “I’m no saint, Dean. But you’ve…” He doesn’t know how to continue. _Just because I’m not saint doesn’t mean you are. Just because I’ve done bad doesn’t mean I’m evil. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t change._

If he doesn’t tell Dean, then Dean will never know, and Dean can never try to fix himself. He’ll either accept what Sam says or he won’t. And if he doesn’t… well, Sam figures, there’s a nurse inside, if things go that badly.

Sam closes his eyes for a second and summons back every scrap of memory he has of how he felt after he made that angel vacate his brain. Angry. Justified. Determined. Like he could really see a future where Dean changed, where he treated Sam and Sam’s wants and needs like real concerns, where they were really brothers. Like Sam’s concerns matter.

“Dean,” he says quietly, opening his eyes just enough to be able to look at the hands Dean still has twisted together. “Dean, I don’t know what she said. I don’t know what she meant. But you need to know--the things I said to you, like, a year and a half ago--”

Sam should have known not to say that. Dean’s hands separate only so they can tighten into fists, and Sam looks up briefly to see him scowling. “Right back to that, are we?” he snaps. “Now that you know the Mark is gone and I’m not gonna flip my lid, you’re reminding me we’re not brothers and you wouldn’t save me?”

“You know I would save you,” Sam reminds him quietly. Having the same conversation twice in one day should be overkill. For Dean, maybe it will finally get it to stick. “That’s what that whole thing with Death was about, remember? We talked about this, Dean. I would save you. I’d do just about anything. You mean the world to me. I just wouldn’t go against what you want--wouldn’t hurt you--in the process. Is that so wrong?” he asks. He doesn’t give Dean a chance to answer, which he feels a little bad about, but he knows if he does, then they will get sidetracked completely and be out here until the Darkness really does come to suck them all dry. “You said you wanted to start over, try again,” Sam reminds him. “Now that you realize how bad that little voice inside your head is, how much damage the Mark did. I’m just giving you a place to start.”

Sam’s waiting for the angry rejection of his help, fully expects it, but instead he gets a sullen, “By telling me we’re not brothers?”

“By telling you…it takes work to be real brothers,” Sam says quietly. “Brothers, partners…friends. Whatever, Dean. We’re supposed to be all of those, and all of those are supposed to be equals. With respect and trust that goes both ways.” Dean doesn’t respond, so Sam says, voice even quieter, “It’s a place to start. If you want that.”

Dean still doesn’t say anything, and Sam can accept that. For all his drifter, transient, never-put-down-roots lifestyle, Dean actually doesn’t adapt to change all that well. Whatever reaction he’s working up to--and Sam honestly can’t tell--it will take time.

Sam looks out at the fire, smoldering on its last remaining embers now. “Okay,” he says. “I think it’s about time.”

 


	4. Chapter Four

They clean up and then leave. Caitlyn stays behind. No one expected her to come, except, apparently, Dean, who asks her twice if she wants revenge for her brother. She doesn’t; or, at the very least, she doesn’t want to be the one actively pursuing it. She just wants to grieve. Dean shrugs like that’s the strangest thing he’s ever heard, and they all leave the little grieving family behind.

They’re down to nine people now, their little caravan one car shorter as they drive back to the edge of the Darkness.

There is no denying that it’s further out. There are houses inside that weren’t before, entire buildings, even a gas station. Sam just hopes the people in them had the good sense to get far away before the Darkness swallowed them up. He doesn’t like to think about what happens to people who get touched by the edge of the Darkness while it’s drawing them in.

There are children’s toys in the front yard of the house, Sam can’t help but notice, a little overturned tricycle and one of those remote control cars just big enough for a kid to ride around in. Sam just hopes the kids themselves are far, far away.

Eventually they reach the new boundary. “How big is it now?” Sam asks, looking over at Dean, who shrugs.

“Hell if I know,” he says. “Took about fifteen miles to get out here.”

Which gives them a diameter approaching thirty-five, Sam figures, doing some sloppy calculations in his head. 35 π. Somewhere just about one hundred ten miles, Sam figures. He shudders.

It’s not the universe, but it’s a damn good start, considering it’s only been a handful of days. Considering that they don’t yet have a way to beat it back.

But that’s today’s goal, Sam figures. As soon as Dean rolls to a stop, as close to the Darkness’ edge as he dares safely get, Sam’s already opening his door, climbing out.

He goes immediately to the Impala’s trunk, only noticing the others spilling out of their cars from the corners of his eyes. He roots through the mess--sometime soon, they are going to clean this, he thinks, and, finally free of the Mark and able to focus on the mundane, it will be something Dean will be up for soon, assuming they survive this--and finds what he’s looking for. He has to search mostly by feel, hoping not to find anything sharp that’s not properly stored in some way with his vulnerable fingers, although there is some light from nearby headlights, giving them some illumination. There’s a shotgun loaded with salt, pistols loaded with iron, a pistol loaded with silver. A super soaker with holy water in it. An angel blade. A various assortment of blessed objects and weapons that have collected over the years and miles, none of them valuable enough that Sam figures it isn’t worth it to try chucking them into the Darkness.

Sam swallows. “Careful of getting too close,” he warns the crowd assembling around him. “We don’t need…” He doesn’t finish. They all know full well what they don’t need.

The guns, being projectile weapons, go first. Salt does nothing, nor does silver or iron. Witches brew bullets are absolutely useless. On a lark, Sam tries a bullet with a devil’s trap carved into it. It takes out Knights of Hell, but apparently it can’t take down the oldest evil in the known universe.

The supersoaker of holy water requires them to get a little closer, considering that toy water guns just don’t have the range of real, deadly projectile weapons. Dean takes it with a glare, not allowing protest, and Sam’s heart is in his throat with every step. Dean seems to judge himself close enough-- _too close too close too close_ \--and shoots. All it does is seem to piss the Darkness off, making Dean run the thirty or so feet back to the rest of them, but if that’s because the holy properties of holy water actually upset the Darkness or just because they’ve been pissing it off with attacks is anyone’s guess.

They give it a short break, not wanting to tempt fate into fucking any of them over, and eat while they wait. Sam honestly couldn’t tell anyone what time it is. Somewhere between breakfast and lunch, he’d hazard, although whether it’s closer to one or the other is anyone’s guess. But they’re hungry, so they eat. Sam supposes that’s how time works inside the Darkness. It’s not like there is a sun to guide their days.

They finish the last of the bread that they have, and the peanut butter jar is just about scraped clean. They passed around some dried banana chips. Sam absently wonders about that gas station they passed. It’s the type with a mini-mart, and robbery isn’t high on Sam’s list of things to do, but if this goes on much longer, it might be a good idea. They probably need gas, anyways, at this point, while they’re at it.

Lunch ends, and the Darkness hasn’t chased them down with the intent of getting its hooks in them like it did to Jackson, so getting back to work can’t be put off much longer.

They have blessed iron bullets from a long ago hunt that Dean digs out of a far corner of the trunk under a pile of other junk, so they try that. It gets them a small simmering of angry lashing that doesn’t reach them, but no other reaction.

“It doesn’t like holy things,” Laura observes.

She’s a smart kid. Sam was just about to say the same.

“Didn’t God lock it away?” Billie asks. “Of course it doesn’t.”

“Ain’t gonna do us much good if its little fear can’t stop it,” Mark points out.

Dean grunts his acknowledgement, then turns to Sam. “One of those things that needs a blessed, blood tipped stake?” he asks. “Kills lots of old things. Ancient deities and all of that.”

Sam shrugs. “It’s older than blood,” he points out. “If it’s older than light, than it’s technically older than the earth, and definitely humans. Light was day one. Humans were day six. Even animal blood is kinda late in the game.”

Dean scowls at that. “We could try, though,” Sam offers. “I have a knife.” He reaches down to his boot.

Cheryl’s voice stops him. “Don’t cut yourself for something you know won’t work,” she says. “We don’t need people wasting blood.”

It’s a decent point, considering their situation, so Sam and Dean agree to hold off on the blood tests for the immediate future.

They take turns throwing various objects into the Darkness. Some fall short, but no one dares go close enough to collect them. Some make contact. The ones that are blessed in Judeo-Christian mythology aggravate the Darkness, although nothing seems to truly hurt it. The rest are seemingly useless.

They’re left with only the angel blades left, the only weapon of actual value, distinctly limited quantity, and a demand for short range. Sam hoists one, playing with the hilt as he looks forward, into the edge of the Darkness, unsure.

“There’s no way you can get close enough to stab it,” James says finally.

Sam shakes his head. “Nope,” he agrees.

“Throw it like a spear?” Keiran suggests. “Aim will be off, but… why do we care? Like hitting the broadside of a barn. You can’t miss.”

Angel blades aren’t necessarily designed for aerodynamic qualities. Sam assumes it can be thrown and probably has been in the past, but he needs to make sure it makes it into where the power of the Darkness actually lies.

“I’ll take it,” he says. “Get a little closer, make sure the thing makes it.” He looks over at Dean, who already has his mouth open to protest. “You did it last time,” Sam says. “We’ll split it.”

Dean’s mouth doesn’t close right away, clearly still intending to protest, but Harriet gives a loud, fake cough. Dean closes his mouth.

“Fine,” Dean mutters sulkily after a moment, but Sam is already moving towards the Darkness’ edge.

He counts his paces carefully, moving to the point where he remembers Dean standing with the super soaker earlier, and not a step further. He squares his stance, takes a few practice lineups, and then hauls him arm back before releasing the angel blade, throwing it like a javelin.

The Darkness apparently does not at all appreciate such a move.

For a minute, Sam swears it’s opening up around the blade, the area almost weakening. But then it seems to swallows the blade into its black, oily walls, and Sam doesn’t have time to run before it’s lashing out at him, strands like octopus tentacles coming for him.

He turns and tries to run, tries to find safety, but the angel blade in particular seems to have upset it more than anything else, and Sam isn’t sure whether it has just grown angry enough to reach further in than it has before, or if he simply hasn’t made it to safety, but it catches him, smoky hands stroking over him before plunging inside.

 

_Touch. Touchtouchtouchtouchtouch…_

_Dad always preferred Dean. Made him his second and command and you just the Private to shut up and follow orders. Remember how they ordered you around. Remember the things Dad wrote in his journal. Remember the secrets they kept. Remember the demands, their refusal to listen to you. Remember how Dad left you without food, without money, made you do his research, yelled, never told you anything. Remember remember remember..._

_Remember Dean always taking his side, telling you to shape up, get in line. Remember Dean standing by when Dad threw you out. Remember. Remember Dean taking you away from Stanford, and every order, and…_

_STOP._

The uncontrollable, swirling chaos of a tirage quiets for a moment, the rising anger and fear sinking back, allowing Sam to feel the full presence of his mind, even if it all feels too far away to access at the moment.

_What is this?_ It demands to know. _What is this creature? It is like the others, simple and breakable, new and soft and weak, but it has… the touch… the key holder. The conqueror. I cannot…_

_Lucifer._ Sam shivers. It’s talking about Lucifer. It senses Lucifer inside of him and is hesitating because of it. He should have known. He let the angel wear him. They were in the cage together for millennia. He should have known.

He is not the conqueror. But he feels like him. I can feel the key holder…

The key holder. The one who once held what would be known as the Mark of Cain. Lucifer, the original owner. Sam’s tainted by it too, now, enough, at least, that it is confusing the Darkness.

_He is… He is…_

In the Darkness’ confusion, Sam pushes back, hoping to rid it from his body and mind, thinking of saving himself. But he doesn’t push it free. Instead, he realizes with a jolt that he is inside the Darkness, that he has entered whatever passes for its consciousness, pushing back so much that he has reversed their connection.

_A universe of nothing but Darkness, comforting, whole, cold. Owned. Suddenly pierced by tiny pinpricks, upstart angels and their blades, irritants but not destroyers. Things to be crushed, swallowed by Darkness and made to vanish into nothingness. Dark tendrils cut through by those cursed blades, by the grace that backs them._

_Irritating, and constant, but still not the end. The Darkness still holds all. Four angels are no match for what came first, what came largest, and what will be always._

_Then that upstart creature that wants to claim the Darkness’ place does something, something ununderstandable and unidentifiable. The Darkness is split apart, torn to tatters, ripped and shredded as something incomprehensible tears through it. It is pain as never previously known, it is destruction._

_It is a conquering._

_The angels use their blades and their grace to tear into what is left, beating it so small, causing so much destruction and pain, that that upstart God does not fear the Darkness anymore. The new thing does not go away, and the Darkness is almost glad to be locked away by the conquerors, even if it is an eternity, even if the key is given to one of the conquerors, keeping him prisoner inside his hole. At least it is theirs, and the thing is not there, even if all the Darkness can dream about is having their universe back._

Sam pulls away. He doesn’t need to see anymore. He knows what he needs, now. Now, he needs to find a way to survive this, so he can pass on what he knows to Dean and the others. Those touched by the Darkness don’t survive, but Sam doesn’t need very long to kill it.

_He is breakable… if only the key… but it is not a whole key. Time. Time will be necessary…_

“You don’t have it,” Sam says, summoning as much determination as he can. “You don’t, you don’t…”

Sam hates himself a bit, but he well remembers what it felt like to have Lucifer inside of him. Not the fear, not the terror, although those were the dominant emotions on his part. No, the coldness, the confidence, the arrogance, the conqueror’s haughtiness that seemed unable to be beaten. He remembers Lucifer touching every inch inside him, his mind, his soul, and he summons the cold, icy fingers back.

_I am-I am-I am what you cannot touch. I have beaten you before and I can do it again._

Sam calls on every last bit of will he has, what it took to throw out Gadreel, what it took to control Lucifer, what it takes to curb an addiction, what it takes to stand against John Winchester, the power of will he knows far too well and unleashes it, pushing and pushing at the Darkness, not to get inside but to force it away. Out. Gone.

Sam knows it’s out because, ironically, his head goes entirely black.

 

He comes too, feeling the slimy touch of the Darkness still on him, even if it is no longer inside of him, and eyes watching him. He turns his head. Dean is far too close.

He groans, coughs, and resists closing his eyes once more. “Back up,” he warns. “It might… it might decide any of you are more worthy prey.”

“What happened?” Dean asks urgently, not moving back.

“It got inside me,” Sam says. “But it can’t touch me like it can Jackson. Because… Lucifer possessed me, and I still have his grace. And Lucifer conquered it, _and_ carried the Mark. It’s not permanent. It knows it’s only a remnant of the Mark. But it’s slowing it down.”

Sam can’t tell between his somewhat blurred vision and the only illumination being the weak light from the cars’ headlights, but he thinks Dean goes even paler at the thought. “Need to come up with a plan fast, then,” he says, voice remaining remarkably steady.

Sam takes a deep breath. “Lucky for all of us, I may have one,” he says, letting all the pieces click into place in his mind. “I… saw some things, when it was in me. And I know how to take it down.” He takes a deep breath. “On the first day, God created…”

“Light,” Laura says after a second’s hesitation.

Sam nodded. “He didn’t create light to fill the gap left by the Darkness. He created it to destroy the Darkness. Angel grace and Angel blades are powerful and can tear at it, but only real light can destroy it.”

Sam takes a deep breath, finding that he’s needing more and more of them. It doesn’t escape his attention that the Darkness is still touching him, like hands roaming over his skin, desperately seeking another way in. He wonders if pushing the Darkness out is what left him so exhausted, or it’s the Darkness’ continued efforts that are doing it. Perhaps it’s both. Either way, he better adapt fast.

“I think the sun is slowing it down,” Sam explains. “I mean, it seems like it’s moving fast, but for something that seems to have gotten its claws in a few people, for something that once had the entire universe? It’s slow. Light hurts it pretty bad. And I think we’re… well, in the belly of the beast, sort of. So if we can get enough light going in here, in its inner sanctuary…” he trails off.

“So, a fire?” James asks dubiously. “We had one. Was bright, but didn’t kill the thing.”

Sam shakes his head. “Fire probably was just a little irritating, probably could ignore it almost entirely. Bigger.”

“How big?” Cheryl asks, and Sam thinks she sounds almost suspicious.

Sam manages a tired grin. “What do you know about blowing up power stations?”

 

For a plan Sam cobbled together while coming out of a mental fight with the most ancient source of evil, Sam thinks he’s done an okay job. Everything makes sense to him, at least.

The one downside to their plan is that they only have two more angel blades in the Impala’s trunk. Sam would ideally prefer a dozen or so, but that doesn’t seem to be happening. They’ll have to work around it.

Holy water isn’t that hard to make, and while they only have the two supersoakers in the trunk, evidently one can buy them at the gas station Sam spotted earlier. They fill all the cars with gas while Laura and James run inside to grab as many as they can, leaving cash on the counter as they go. They also come out with beef jerky, as many bottles of water as their arms can carry, and, oddly enough, packages of stringed cheese.

Laura blushes. “I want cheese,” she simply says, and no one argues with her.

They’ve rearranged the cars, Sam refusing to ride with anyone. With the amount of gas they need, it just makes sense to shift around and condense anyways. Billie leaves her truck at the gas station and rides with Mark and Laura. Dean takes the Impala, but Sam shifts to Cheryl’s sedan, who is now riding with Harriet.

As long as no one comes too close to Sam, Sam is okay with pretty much any arrangement. The Darkness is still following him, still has its hands on him, and it’s a constant battle of wills to keep it out of him. Even without it inside him, without being able to hear whatever passes for its brain, Sam knows full well that it is still looking for a way inside him, past whatever remnants of the Mark are left. Sam wonders why it doesn’t leave him, seek easier prey. The five or so yards distance he’s insisting on maintaining between him and all the others really isn’t that great of protection. If the long-reaching arms of the Darkness wanted to jump over and see if they would be easier to subjugate and destroy, than Sam hasn’t exactly made it too hard.

Then again, the universe was quieter when the Darkness reigned, when it was last allowed free. Maybe it truly hasn’t processed all the others as actual beings yet. Sam can’t imagine from going from such an empty universe, before the theoretical creation, to an overpopulated, busy, messy world filled to the brim.

Sam blesses the bathroom sink in the gas station. It’s sacrilege, but apparently the water bottles are for drinking--”running around dehydrates you, Sam”--and desperate times call for desperate measures.

Each supersoaker is filled with fresh-made holy water, then Sam leaves the bathroom and watches from a distance as each person files in to pick up theirs. “Right,” he says, raising his voice a bit so it carries across the parking lot. “Everyone get the plan?”

Keiran snorts. “What plan? This is not a plan.”

Well, it’s honestly as much as they ever have, although Sam doesn’t want to be the one to say that. “Everyone got the general idea?” he asks.

“We have it,” Harriet assures him.

“Good,” he says. “I’m going to--yeah,” he says, trailing off awkwardly. He’s already put it into words once, already seen the looks on their faces. He doesn’t need to repeat that. “Good luck,” he finishes.

He tries to go to what was Cheryl’s car, but Dean’s voice stops him. “The Impala, Sammy,” he says.

“I’m not going with you,” Sam reminds him, as if Dean has simply just forgotten the plan.

Sam can practically hear the eyeroll, even if he can’t see it. “Yeah, you are,” Dean says. “We’re going together. I’ve heard this plan. And you’re not accounting for some stuff. Like… how do you plan to do multiple things at once? Keep the Darkness off your back? Hmm?”

“You can’t be near me,” Sam protests.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Dean says. “You said it won’t touch you ‘cause Lucifer had the Mark, and you got Lucifer’s Grace… Well, I had the Mark. Actually had it. Bet I don’t taste too good to it, either. I’m safe enough.”

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it. It’s true enough, although they can’t prove it. He has no desire to risk Dean’s life on something they can’t prove, but Dean, he knows, is as stubborn as ever.

“Besides,” Dean adds, “look at you. You’re… even without it getting to you, it’s taking a lot outta you. Can you even drive?”

Sure he could, the same way he can with a bullet in his gut or claw marks down his ribs. “And if it turns to you?” Sam asks. “Then both of us’ll be like this.”

“It hasn’t moved on yet,” Dean points out. “You must taste really damn good to it.”

It’s a sound plan. It makes sense, to have a second at the power station, and it won’t weaken the others dramatically to lose Dean. He doesn’t want Dean there, doesn’t want to risk his brother on a plan that is almost certainly deadly. “Someone needs to pray when it breaks,” Sam allows. Hopefully, that concrete follow-up task will keep Dean focused and out of too much danger. “Fine,” he allows, as if it were ever a question, ever a decision up to him.

“Make sure not to get too close,” Sam reminds everyone else. “Don’t give it an opportunity to grab you. Run, if you need.”

“We’ve got it,” Billie assures him. She sounds strikingly calm, and either she’s settled into some sort of zone, or what they’re about to do hasn’t hit her yet. Sam fervently hopes he hasn’t just doomed seven people to die. Worse, he hopes he hasn’t just doomed everyone trapped in this bubble of Darkness to death.

He can’t stop and think about it. They either have to act, or they have to wait to die. He’ll die first. Not that that is a discouragement, really, because his death doesn’t matter against the hundreds who live in here. But if he goes, it’s likely that the others will die sooner rather than later. Or, the Darkness will keep expanding, taking over the real world, and they can’t have that, either.

“Let’s go,” Dean says. out of arguments, Sam gets into the passenger’s side of the Impala. The others get into their cars too, but Dean is pulling out of the gas station before they even start moving.

Sam’s close enough to see what a tight grip Dean has on the steering wheel. “You okay?” he mutters.

“Are _you_?” Dean returns. “You’re the one with the Darkness, like, whaling away at you. You holding in there?”

Sam shouldn’t feel so touched by basic concern. Then again, it’s been a while. Since the Trials, he thinks. Sure, Dean was concerned right after Gadreel possessed him, but Sam knows now that that was more about Sam finding out the big secret than any actual concern, so he doesn’t count it. He can’t help but smile a bit, even as it hurts, even as he knows it’s pathetic.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Can hold it together for what we need.”

Dean jerks the wheel a bit, but manages to correct his course relatively quickly. “Jesus, Sammy,” he mutters, but he doesn’t follow the exclamation up with anything, so Sam isn’t sure what to say. Frankly, the effort of figuring it out is massively draining, when considering how much energy it’s taking to keep the Darkness to the outside of his mind.

The power plant isn’t too far away, overall. “You sure you know how to do this?” Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. “No. Gonna figure it out.”

“Wonderful,” Dean says, voice dripping sarcasm. He grabs their flashlights, practically powerless against the stifling Darkness but enough to give them a few feet of clear enough sight. He tosses one to Sam, and Sam is just grateful Dean isn’t being stupid, playing around with physical contact right now.

Sam flips the light on and shines it on his brother, careful not to get it in his eyes, although as weak as it is over two feet, it might not even matter. Dean looks… well, worried is the best word for it, but also determined.

Sam has to look away from his brother and that expression, so he busies himself gathering up the C4 in the trunk, stowing it in an old backpack, and getting it ready for the long walk to the power plant. Lastly, they each grab one of the last remaining angel blades, and then they’re ready to go.

They’re well over two hundred yards from the power plant, but Sam doesn’t even have to ask why. The Impala. If they’re going to be playing with fire, Dean would prefer not to leave his precious car in the line of fire, and Sam can’t blame him. Even if they’re both dead, charred to a crisp and clinging to the walls inside the power station, the Impala will live on, as it was always meant to, surviving generation after generation of Winchester. Too bad there is no one to take it next.

Maybe Cas will come for it, or Jody will claim it. At the very least, someone they know around here should claim it, bring it home, hopefully care for it. Anything but it rusting where Dean parked it, waiting for the owner that will never return.

They start to walk. Sam needs to go slow to keep his footing, but he fears his own lack of speed. What if he’s attracting more Darkness? What if the inky hands are gearing up to overwhelm him? They already won’t let him go, and Sam is pressed to his limits. He needs this taken care of fast.

“You hit it, then you run,” Dean says, voice low as they walk. “No standing around, no hesitating. Run. I’ll stab as we run.”

Sam knows running is likely a fruitless exercise, but he shrugs. “Yeah,” he says, as if it’s an obvious and indispensable part of the plan. “Obviously.”

Dean glares at him. “I mean it,” he says. “I’m not losing you to this.”

_You may not have a choice_ , Sam thinks, but he won’t go borrowing trouble.

Dean wants to start over, and even if it’s rocky footing, Sam still thinks he means it. Which means, Sam wants to be alive to see that, to live it, to see if it’s really as good as he dreamt it would be.

He bets it will be better, if it really happens. But he has to be alive to see it.

So if survival is at all possible, it’s something Sam wants. If it’s not, he supposes that’s just what happens. He should be long dead by now, anyways. His life is borrowed again and again. Eventually, something is going to come due.

He wishes he had more of an opportunity to learn about the power plant. But the internet is not at his disposal, and while the Town Hall and the records housed inside might feasibly be located inside the Darkness, they don’t have time to drive all over and look for it. Sam doesn’t have time. He can barely fight off the Darkness.

They’re getting close to the power plant now, which means everything is getting close. Either this will work, or it won’t. There’s no other way around it, no alternatives, no maybes.

The world starts to go black again. Thankfully, Sam doesn’t lose touch, doesn’t pass out, but the edges of the world go even darker than they already are, blurring, and Sam fears for a moment he’s going to lose it all.

There’s a shoving inside his skull, and Sam distantly realizes that he didn’t keep enough control, lost the piece of himself capable of keeping the Darkness out for a few minutes, probably in his planning and his worry.

But he can still push back, so he does, shoving as hard as he can, summoning all those pieces of himself designed to protect his own brain. _Outoutoutoutout MINE._

He comes to on his knees, hyperventilating, his vision not entirely back yet. He tries to control his breathing, tries to figure out what is just the Darkness and what is blurred vision. He doesn’t try to push to his feet just then.

“Dude, what is it?” Dean asks, hovering a few feet away.

Sam manages to steady his breathing enough to speak. “It got…further,” he says, voice hoarse. “It…saw into my head. I pushed it out, but…it’s getting harder.”

“Is it…in?” Dean asks, voice hushed, full of dread.

Sam shakes his head. “No. We’re good. I’m good. As long as I keep fighting it.”

“Can you stand?” Dean asks, already reaching a hand out without thinking.

“Don’t touch,” Sam reminds him. “Don’t want it to touch you. I can… I can get up on my own.” It’s a bit of a stretch statement, but Sam will make it work. He moves to one knee, then puts a hand onto his raises knee and pushes, guiding himself upright. He staggers a bit, worries for a second about falling and, more importantly, Dean being a stupid idiot and trying to catch him, but he manages to keep his balance.

“Let’s go,” he says.

He can hear Dean sigh, but he doesn’t say anything else, so they start walking once more.

They should be getting close. They don’t know this county all that well, but Sam and Dean have a lifetime of quickly memorized directions under their belts, and it is very obvious that they should be getting close. It’s disconcerting. Maybe they took a wrong turn in the Darkness, somewhere.

Then Sam realizes that the ghostly hands caressing as his skin aren’t coming from above any longer. They’ve been reaching down to grab him. But now, they’re coming from straight ahead.

“Shit,” Sam mutters.  
“What?”

“The Darkness. Stop walking,” Sam instructs.

It’s a testament to the situation that Dean follows Sam’s direction, but Sam doesn’t have time to be grateful.

“Look,” Sam says quietly. “It’s thicker. Like at the edges.”

Dean shakes his head. “We’re miles away from the edge of this thing.”

“It’s…defensive,” Sam says, half afraid, half curious over what exactly this thing is. The most ancient consciousness in all the universe, he supposes. Not even really evil, just wanting to eat and grow and kill things that get in its way. And they, he realizes, are in the way. “Trying to block us out.”

“How does it know?” Dean snaps, unconsciously stepping closer to Sam. Sam moves a step away, although, at this point, it doesn’t even matter anymore. The Darkness is baring down on them regardless.

“Because it’s been in my head,” Sam says, trying to keep my voice level. “The same way I know that God and the archangels brought it down with light, I’d guess. It was thinking about Lucifer and that’s its strongest memory of Lucifer. I was thinking about taking it down, and now it knows the plan.”

“Well, that’s just great,” Dean snaps. “Real great, Sammy. It knows everything.”

Sam swallows. “Sorry,” he mutters. He didn’t mean this to happen. How was he supposed to not think of the thing they are actively planning? But it is his fault the Darkness found out.

Dean takes a deep breath. “Not your fault,” he mutters, and it sounds rushed and half-grudging, like Dean is forcing the words out, like they’re hard to say. “You couldn’t--it’s in your head. What do we do now?” he asks, an abrupt change of subject.

Sam blinks, still lost on the _not your fault_ , unable to catch up for a moment. Then he realizes Dean asked a question. He shrugs. “I can get through,” he says. “It’ll be like a targeted assault, I guess. More to hit me with. But it could’ve done that all along. If I can make it through without it breaking into my brain, figuring out a way past the pieces of Lucifer still floating around in there, then it can’t stop me. It’ll just… keep trying. But you…” Sam trails off, unsure.

“Can do the same thing, then,” Dean says.

“What? No,” Sam protests.

“Course I can. I’ve had the Mark too. And it was a lot more real than just having Lucifer inside me,” Dean says. “If you can fight it off, I definitely can.”

Sam bristles, but Dean doesn’t mean it like that, isn’t trying to call Sam weak or incapable. And it’s true. Dean has had the Mark of Cain, the flavor of it or whatever the Darkness is sensing probably lingers in his veins.

But it’s more than just having that in him. Sam’s drawing on everything he knows about possession to keep the Darkness from taking him over. And Sam knows more than just about anyone. He certainly knows more than Dean.

Dean’s never been possessed. Sam’s more than glad for it, but knowing what possession is is essentially necessary to this situation. Dean’s never fought with an invading force like that, never been taken over, shut down, made to do things. He’s never had to struggle against it. From everything Sam knows, Dean goes out of his way to deliberately not understand how possession works.

Sure, he had the Mark of Cain, but Dean himself has told Sam how that worked. An amplification of the little voice that already whispered inside of Dean’s skull. It turned the part of Dean that believes he’s always right from a voice to a shout. And Dean fought it, off and on, when it was most desperately needed, but it took him over. The Mark amplified that voice and Dean gave into the feeling. And Sam doesn’t really blame him for that, but the fact of the matter is, it doesn’t help here.

“It doesn’t just back off because you’ve had the Mark,” Sam says. “It keeps trying. Why do you think it’s still picking at me? You have to fight it. Constantly. Every second, just to keep it at bay. Or it gets you like it got Jackson.”

Dean shrugs. “So I have to fight. I can pull it off.”

“You can’t…Dean, it’s crazy to let it touch you. Me, it’s already got me. It doesn’t make much of a difference. I either hold out and finish this, or I don’t. But it hasn’t touched you yet.”

“What do you want me to do?” Dean demands. “Sit out? This you saying I can’t handle it?”

It is, in part. Sam flushes, thankful for the dark that manages to hide it. “No,” he manages. “Dean, it’s… hard. All those times I’ve been possessed, fought it off… Crowley, Gadreel, Lucifer… I’m using that, okay? And you don’t have that.”

“I fought the Mark until I couldn’t anymore,” Dean snaps.

Sam sighs. He knows. He gets it. Dean did the best he could.

He never could beat the Mark. Never. But he held it off, here and there, when it was necessary. He didn’t give in entirely for its disregard of human life, its need to kill, to prove dominance, until the end. He got bad, but he could have been worse, Sam supposes.

“I know,” he says. “But this is different, Dean.”

“It’s not,” Dean snaps. “Besides, you need me in there. It’s gonna take two to tango, Sammy.”

“Not if it’s all around me, like it will be,” Sam says. “It’s not gonna take any effort to stab.”

Dean growls. Actually growls. “Why am I even arguing this with you? Sam, you’re not gonna stop me. I’m doing this with you, end of story.”

Sam’s face adopts a carefully cultivated blank look that Dean probably can’t even see that well. So much for Dean listening to him, or following his lead in any way, shape, or form.

“You always say I never do anything for you,” Sam says. “Well, Dean, this is it. This is me doing things for you. When I do the research, that’s doing something for you. Looking for Dad, desperately trying to break your deal and going along with whatever you wanted, that’s doing things for you. When I have your back, that’s doing something for you.” Sam leaves out the demon blood, his determination to eradicate Lilith and her ilk for Dean. He knows how that will be received, and he doesn’t need to derail their conversation. “When I killed Alistair, that was for you. Every time I listen to you, that’s because I care about you and desperately want this thing to work. I took the Trials for you, Dean, so you could live. I gave you chance after chance when you fucked up with Gadreel, and that was for you too, because I want us to be able to fix this. Trying to get rid of the Mark was for you, Dean, so you could be you again, not have to live in fear. And here we are, again, me trying to do something for you, because only one of us has to go in there, only one of us has to face that, and I’m already facing it. The Mark might help you keep it at bay, but it might not. You might end up like Jackson, eat away at, dead, alright? This is me trying to do something for you, and for once, just for once, could you just fucking accept it?”

Sam’s breathing heavily when he finishes, chest heaving, and he immediately has to try to get a grip on himself. He doesn’t need to leave holes for the Darkness, and, judging how it was with Jackson, judging how the Mark of Cain worked, righteous anger, justified or not, seems like a big hole for it. Sam thinks cold thoughts, like he remembers Lucifer filling his head with. Cold and haughty and distant, hopefully enough to keep the Darkness at bay a little while longer.

“You don’t get to make this damn decision for me,” Dean says, voice tense after a moment of silence.

Sam nearly screams. “I’m not making it for you! Making it for you would be pinning you to the ground, tying you up, and dragging you back to the car. Or knocking you out,” he adds. “This is me _begging_ you to see it my way! For once!”

“For _once_?” Dean sneers. “Like you don’t always get your way.”

Sam snorts. “Have you met you?” he asks. “Just a year ago, you called yourself a dictator, remember? The only surprising thing about it was that you said it aloud.”

He takes a deep breath. His anger is getting out of control, and the very last thing Sam can be is out of control right now. Two, three deep breaths, and reasserting the necessary mindset. They can fight all they want later, Sam doesn’t care. If he survives, he’ll listen to Dean rail at him for the rest of his life. Right now, he just needs to find a way to convince Dean to lay off, see reason, and not get his dumb self killed.

Of course, Dean has no reason to moderate his anger, and lets it show as much as he ever does. He starts walking backwards tauntingly. “Not gonna stop me, Sammy,” he says. “I’m going in with you, we’re gonna do this together, and that’s--”

The Darkness grabs him. The weak light of the flashlight allows Sam to see what’s happening until he drops it in his haste to run forward and grab Dean, but it’s too late. It has Dean.

Sam grabs onto Dean, long past thinking of whether or not touching him matters. It doesn’t, anyways. Not anymore.

“Dean? Dean?” he asks, begging for a response, and getting nothing. “Fuck!” he shouts.

The Darkness presses at Sam too now, the additional tendrils combining with the original set probing him, latching on to the weakness of his fear and desperation. Fighting his emotions, fighting back the Darkness, is the last thing Sam wants to do right then. He wants to rage and scream at how unfair this all his, at how he _will not lose his brother to this, dammit_. How they did not come all this way for nothing. He wants to shake Dean, curse his stubborn stupidity. He wants to shout and wear, possibly even cry a bit.

He takes a deep, calming breath, and begins to work on centering himself, bringing back that icy cold feeling that seems to be working so well--or, at least, working so well when he can maintain it. He has to keep it, has to keep functioning. One of them needs to keep control and take care of things.

“Stay with me, Dean,” Sam says, voice insistent but relatively level. “C’mon, you can handle this.”

Truthfully, Sam wasn’t sure if Dean could, even just minutes ago. But that is no longer an option. Dean has to be able to handle it.

It’s long, agonizing minutes of waiting paired with trying to keep his cool. Sam is genuinely worried that he will lose it, and he’s getting close. But Dean’s eyes flicker open, and Sam has managed to hold it together.

“Stay calm,” Sam says. “You have to keep calm.”

Dean takes, a deep, unsteady breath, but he manages to avoid flailing, or other signs of panic.

“How you doing?” Sam asks.

“Guh,” is Dean’s eloquent response. “God, fuck, Sammy…”

“Mhm,” Sam agrees. “Yeah. Keep calm. Whatever you’re doing to keep it out, keep doing it.”

Dean groans again, and Sam takes that as confirmation. He hopes the groaning and moaning is a sign that Dean is fighting. Jackson jumped back up and looked just fine for a little while, because he was unable to stop the Darkness. If Dean’s fighting, then it’s logical that he hurts like Sam.

After a moment, Dean blinks his eyes back open. “Let’s go,” he rasps.

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere,” Sam says.

“Didn’t go through that to be left behind.”

Sam grits his teeth, because Dean should not have gone through it in the first place. But what’s done is done, and they are likely running low on time. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s go.” He retrieves the flashlights from where they’ve been dropped, and steels himself for what is going to be an even harder task than before.

_Don’t think about how this ends. You get Dean out, you get yourself out if at all possible. You save this town._

Dean is an idiot. Dean didn’t have to do this, there was absolutely no reason for him to go in there. _He made his choice. You made yours. Hunters die bloody, and we’ve lived our nine lives already._

Sam swallows. Best not to think of any of that until he absolutely has to. It shatters his calm around the edges.

He has to help Dean up, because he’s still shaky on his feet. He’s clearly not finding some sort of inner ice to keep the Darkness out like Sam is. Then again, Dean doesn’t have the memory of Lucifer to rely on. He wonders what Dean is using.

Probably his experience with the Mark, and as if that’s not a chilling thought. Sam supposes, in this context, he doesn’t have room to talk, not when he’s summoning the memory of the Prince of Lies to keep the Darkness out.

It’s cave darkness around the power plant, and even the flashlights only illuminate a few inches around them. They essentially have to feel out the entrance, even as Sam carries Dean in one arm, using his free hand to hold the flashlight. Their angel blades, even held loosely at their sides, cut at the Darkness, angering it, making it lash at them further. It’s not an ideal situation, to say the least.

But they make it work. There is no other choice, really. Eventually, Sam finds the front entrance, pushes it open. It’s not even that well secured, which Sam thinks he should be grateful about, considering he doubts his ability to pick a lock, given all the variables. Still, this isn’t that safe. Sam supposes that’s just small town living. He’s been through hundreds of small towns, and it always shocks him what people will leave unguarded because they trust their neighbors.

“Anyone in here?” he shouts, hoping desperately to get no reply. If anyone was, they’d already be taken by the Darkness, and maybe destroying it could save them, but getting them out would still be a nightmare. A necessity, of course, but a nightmare.

No one answers, and Sam has to take that as answer enough.

Shockingly, in his long and storied career of felonies, Sam has actually never blown up a power plant. The theory behind it should be simple enough, he supposes, because one lesson that John passed on to Dean, who passed it on to Sam, where it then stuck, always said: C4 takes care of pretty much everything.

Of course, if he sets the charges wrong, he’ll just blow holes in the place and there will be no explosion, no light strong enough to hit the Darkness. Considering he has barely any idea what he’s doing, considering he’s working in the pitch darkness, it would be easy enough to mess up.

But he won’t, because he has only one chance at this.

It would be easier if the internet still worked, because while a search about blowing up power stations might bring the NSA snooping into your life, Sam can handle that if he just has the information he needs. But he’s left without the ability to research, and completely reliant on what he thinks he remembers from physics, way back in the day.

It’s hard to work while holding Dean with one arm, prompting Dean to hold his own flashlight at the right angle, and keeping his own balanced between chin and collarbone, trying to balance his angel blade against his leg and not have it fall into the Darkness, but Sam does it. The other option is leaving Dean propped against the wall or something, which would mean losing Dean in the Darkness, which is something Sam most certainly isn’t up for.

“Light up a little more, Dean,” Sam says, trying not to get frustrated, both because Dean doesn’t need his frustration and because getting frustrated isn’t going to help his own situation. Dean is trying his best, and Sam knows it, it’s just that focusing on multiple things at once--like fighting the continuous assault from the Darkness and holding the flashlight--is overwhelming Dean. He’s not even speaking, and Sam rarely hears his brother so quiet. It’s incredibly unnerving, more so than the pitch blackness, honestly.

Dean lifts the light, giving Sam enough to see by to keep working. Barely enough, but enough to get by. “Thanks,” Sam says absently, fiddling with the charges, hoping they’re in the right places, hoping this will actually work and not blow up in their faces figuratively instead of literally, becoming a massive embarrassment and the smoking remains of all hope.

It’s best not to think that way. It just leaves room for the Darkness, room for mistakes in general, and Sam cannot afford to leave that kind of room.

“Done,” he announces, shining the light as close as he can one last time, just to be sure. “We gotta bail, Dean. Gotta move. Let’s go.”

“‘Kay, Sammy,” Dean slurs, and Sam winces at the sound. Dean doesn’t sound good, sounds like his fight is going poorly. Honestly, Sam’s own fight is getting strenuous, and if they don’t end this soon, he might not be able to hold out much longer. His heart is jumping around in his chest and he can’t slow it down, but his panic is only driving the Darkness poking at him into a frenzy. It can smell weakness.

Sam leaves the bag he used to carry the C4 wherever it has fallen, not having the time or the inclination to look. Right then, he needs to make sure he has a good grip on his own state of mind, the flashlight, his angel blade, and his brother, then haul out of there as fast as he can. It’s not an easy feat, but it’s their only option.

The power plant, if Sam did everything correctly, is going to blow any moment, and Sam would like to not be here when it does. Sam’s blasting caps are amateur at best, what he had available to work with. It’s not like they have time to go shopping.

There is something to be said for improvisation, but the safety features provided by such a state aren’t among them. They could theoretically go at any time, wild and practically uncontrolled.

As foolish as it is, since they’re trapped in the apparently impenetrable Darkness, since no one has listened to his prayers in such a long time, Sam starts to pray.

_If you’re listening, let this work. Let us save this town. Let us survive this. Please. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…_

“Almost out, Dean,” Sam promises. He can’t see the door or anything through the pitch-black Darkness, but by counting steps, he guesses that they’re getting close. They need to be.

_Holy Mary, Mother of God, the Lord is with thee…_

The blast goes off, and Sam falls forward, Dean falling under Sam’s bulk landing on top of him. The flashlights fall, and spin out, wide, before disappearing from view. Sam grips his angel blade tight in one hand, drawing it closer to himself, and managed to make a stab at the Darkness still attacking his person, slicing into the tendril and actually making it seemingly sever. With his other hand, he grips Dean’s shoulder tightly. He tries to slice again, but he’s weakening, and the best he can do is wiggle the blade about a bit. For a moment, Sam sees actual light, and then everything is dark once more.


	5. Chapter Five

“Sam Winchester.”

Sam turns, spins, but sees nothing. The Darkness follows him even here.

And he has no doubt that he is in some sort of here. Somewhere else than where he started.

“Hello?” Sam asks.

A figure steps out of the Darkness. He swings a long cane, wears an impressive suit, and has a narrow, pinched face with piercing eyes that makes Sam step back. “You’re dead,” he says, tone accusing as he stares at the figure he saw Dean murder in his stead.

The figure snorts. “I am _Death_ ,” he corrects. “And as such, I cannot die.”

“Dean killed you. With your scythe,” Sam says.

“Your bothersome brother murdered an image,” Dean corrects once more. “A representation. The Death you knew is but a particularly powerful reaper, Sam Winchester. But _Death_ can never die.”

Sam’s head hurts, or it would if he was alive for it to do such a thing. As it is, he is distinctly aware how disconnected from his body he is, how much pain he should be in that he is currently neatly avoiding.

“So, you’re…alive?” Sam checks.

“Essentially.”

“This isn’t a hallucination, then,” Sam confirms.

Death shrugs. “I suppose it is, in a way. What you’re seeing is inside your head, an image designed to make you comfortable with dying, with coming with me. But, if you’re asking whether or not you’re dying--you are, I am afraid, Sam.”

Sam nods. “Thought so.” He sighs. “It wasn’t unexpected. Can you tell me--you collect anyone else in there? Where’s Dean?” he demands.

“My reapers collected ten mangled souls that the Darkness sucked dry,” Death informs him. “They were floating around, lost and waiting. Angels could not get through the Darkness. It was too strong.”

“But you’re older than God,” Sam remembers. “Which means…you’re as old as the Darkness, or older. Could you get through?”

Death shrugs. “I didn’t care to try,” he says. “Such an uncomfortable experience is not really worth it for two amoebas who always have grand ideas and think some taquitos will fix their mistakes. I imagine I could have, if I desired.”

“But you didn’t,” Sam surmises, and he wants to be pissed off, that the only creature that could help them chose to leave them behind. But Death is old, and has seen so much, and cares so little for humanity, and honestly it all just exhausts Sam. “Who died, Death?”

“None of your crew of Merry Men,” Death says. “It was close, or so I hear, but they all pulled through, even through your stupid, asinine assault of the Darkness.”

Sam shrugs. “It was the best idea I had,” he says. He hesitates. “Did it work? I guess it must have, if you’re here, collecting souls. So…”

“Yes, your foolish plan paid out,” Dean confirms.

“And Dean?” Sam asks, not having missed that Death skipped delivering that detail. Usually, he would push for it right away, but he’s dead. He’s dead, and he can’t do anything right away, and it hurts to know he’s next to useless, but that’s just the reality.

“Strangely enough, your brother was still clinging to life when those angels made it through,” Death says.

Sam feels some sort of swooping in his gut. “So… he’s alive?”

“Indeed. You seem to have fallen on him, and shielded him from the worst of the blast. He was holding on when that angel of yours arrived. Barely, but alive.”

“Cas saved him,” Sam surmises, relief making his whole body tingle. The goal was to make it through alive, so he could be with Dean, see if things maybe really would change, if Dean was serious. So he wouldn’t break up their family again, at any rate.

But that was always a pipe dream. Saving the people in the Darkness, and keeping Dean alive, was more realistic. And he had succeeded. For once, he had succeeded.

“So… he’s okay?” Sam asks.

“As well as one can be expected. I hear he’s already looking for a way to bring you back.”

The relief collapses at that. “Fuck,” Sam says.

“Indeed. That insolent boy never learns, does he?”

Sam shrugs. He doesn’t want to get into it, just has to hope Dean doesn’t find a way, doesn’t end up messing something up or owing someone what they undoubtedly cannot pay. Being dead isn’t so bad. Sure, he’s going to miss many things he wanted to see. But death will mean rest. Sam has wanted a rest for so long. And it will mean being out of the way. Everything will finally be over.

“So…” Sam begins. “What next? Heaven? Hell? Or do I just hang out here forever?”

“Your soul has been marked for Heaven,” Death says.

“Wonderful,” Sam can’t help but say. “An eternity of gropey Thanksgivings.”

Sam must imagine seeing the little smile on Death’s face. “Only you can know what’s in your Heaven, once you arrive,” he says. “That information is not for me. But I think you will find--well, Bobby Singer is a friend of yours, is he not? I think you will find Heaven is a bit different, these days.”

Sam wonders what that means.

“But we do need to have a discussion, first,” Death continues.

“If this is about me standing you up or whatever--” Sam interrupts.

“Hush,” Dean snaps. “I am speaking. And I expect to be heard.”

Sam goes silent.

“Good,” Death says. “Now, our discussion.  You Winchesters are rather hard to pin down.”

Sam spreads his arms out a little bit from his body. “Well, you have me now.”

“Do I?” Death asks. “Your brother is looking for a way to bring you back, and he won’t stop. Even if he has to deal with demons, or have angels drag you out. And you won’t stop until you rescue him from that, to the best of your ability. Everyone knows how the Winchesters are.”

Sam flushes. It’s true. Dean will go to any lengths, anything to keep the family together. Sam’s standards have always been slightly different--there are things more important than family, like the safety of the world or personal autonomy--but he too will go as far as he possibly can, leave no stone unturned, if it will mean saving Dean. His world has been essentially narrowed down to Dean.

He realizes that’s not healthy. He’s known it for a long time. But it’s all they have.

But he’s dead now. So he guesses he doesn’t have any of it anymore.

“I’m willing to make a _deal_ ,” Death says, lip curling with distaste. “I don’t make deals with humans, so listen closely, Sam Winchester.”

“You’ve made deals with Dean,” Sam objects.

“And I tend to regret them,” Death says. “But perhaps you won’t disappoint me.”

Sam very much doubts that, but he holds still and waits to hear what Death wants to offer.

“I’m willing to put you back,” he says. “Walk away without your soul. Let you live that feeble human life of yours. You Winchesters never let the other go in peace. It’s no use, watching you two wreck the world over this. It destroys the natural balance, the order, time and time again. So, I put you back. You and your brother go on your merry way. And this is the last time. You either come to accept losing each other, or you don’t, but I am putting a stop to anything or anyone bringing either of you back. I am the natural order of the world, and it is a permanent state. Even Winchesters must die. Learn to accept it, or don’t; die together, or separate. I don’t care. This is your last chance to get it right.”

“In exchange for what?” Sam asks with trepidation.

Death shrugs. “Nothing you have could be of much interest to me, Winchester. Germs, offering me all they have.”

“Then what do you want?” Sam asks.

“This will be the last time I see you until you die. You will not summon me, or ask for me. You will not mess with the natural order of things any more. You and your brother leave me in peace. And…” he trails off for a second, and Sam’s heart sinks, waiting for the impossible demand, “if I ever seek you out… not that I have much mind to, I don’t get much enjoyment hanging out with such little creatures… you will owe me a favor, Sam.”

Sam swallows. “What kind of favor?”

“Whatever I ask. But when have I ever asked something less than acceptable? My goal is to keep the balance of the universe.”

Sam knows that’s true. Sure, Death asked for Sam’s death not a week ago, but Sam gets it. The plan might not have been perfect, but he does get it. If Dean has the Mark and can’t be killed, then sending him away is the best plan. But Death is right. Sam showed up to that meeting with those pictures for a reason. He really believed he could still save Dean. Nothing would have convinced him he couldn’t have. They would have messed up the natural order that Death is so fond of once more.

“That’s it?” Sam checks.

Death inclines his head. “That’s it.”

“And if I say no?”

“I’ll kill you,” Death says. “And we’re right back where we started. Take my deal, or go see what heaven is like. But decide quickly; waiting around is trying my patience.”

Sam swallows. He could be done. He could have peace. He doubts Death would really let him be brought back, no matter what he says about him and Dean messing with things. Last time he was here, Death told him he could make it permanent. It could all be over…

Or he could be there, to support Dean, to see him change. To see if they can really be the brothers Sam has always wanted them to be.

Sam holds out a hand. “I accept,” he says. “Send me back, and it’s over.”

Death inclines his head once more, then reaches to shake Sam’s outstretched hand. This time, Sam is sure he smiles. “It has been something of an honor, Sam Winchester,” he admits. “If it weren’t for how much you and that brother damage my universe, I would almost want to see you again.”

“You will, eventually,” Sam says.

Death’s eyes seem to twinkle. “I come for everyone,” he agrees. “But perhaps make it a good long while, hm? I’m older than you could possibly imagine; I can wait.”

Sam doesn’t get a chance to respond. Death vanishes, and the Darkness takes over again. Sam has a brief moment of panic before losing awareness entirely.

 

“Holy motherfucking fucking shit.”

Sam feels his face furrow. That’s Dean, he knows Dean’s voice anywhere, but he doesn’t understand why Dean is swearing like that.

He tries to move, and his body suddenly feels as if it catches fire. Maybe he is on fire. Maybe that explains Dean’s reaction.

“He’s fucking _breathing_ ,” Dean says. “No, c’mere, I’m not losing it, look.”

Sam hears someone moving around, then feels another person standing over him. He wants to ask for something--an Aspirin at least, although he wouldn’t say no to a Vicodin, at this point--but he can’t get his mouth to cooperate.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” another voice says. _Cheryl_ , Sam thinks. “What did you do?”

“I haven’t been able to do anything yet!” Dean protests. Then, “Cas?”

“No,” the angel says. Sam doesn’t think he sounds quite right, something rough about his voice, but he’s in no position to open his eyes and check. He tries, but he feels like they’re weighted with lead. “I haven’t.” There’s a brief pause, then, “And no one else has yet either.”

“Then what the hell?” Dean asks.

“Sometimes patients just come back,” Cheryl offers.

Dean snorts. “Not after three hours. Something messed with him, and it wasn’t us. Cas--you think you can heal him up? He’s gotta be in a shit load of pain.”

Cas hesitates. “Dean, I told you--I am running out of energy.”

Sam wilts internally. But it’s okay. He’ll survive, he’s sure of it. It’ll hurt and it’ll take some time, but he’ll heal. Probably.

“I’ll heal him,” a voice says, and Sam knows he knows that voice, but he can’t quite place it.

“You?” Dean asks.

“Me,” she snaps. “Healing is kind of my specialty. Step aside, Winchester. And don’t touch me.”

“I thought you hated us,” Dean objects.

“I can’t stand you,” she corrects. “Sam’s never threatened me.”

“C’mon,” Dean protests. “That wasn’t really me.”

“Felt real enough,” she says. “Now, shut up while I heal your brother.”

She comes closer, and Sam feels her hands hovering just over him. Then the pain starts to recede, the burning leaving his skin and the aches, pains, and obvious breaks subsiding. “There,” she says, stepping back.

Sam opens his eyes and looks around the room. The first person he sees is Dean, standing at the foot of the couch but watching him intently. He stares for a moment, making sure Dean is as okay as Death promised him. It looks like Cas managed to heal him up right. Sam’s eyes move along.

Flagstaff. That’s the angel who healed him, the angel who worked hospitals after the fall, performing minor miracles, never deserting her job as humanity’s caretaker. The one Dean threatened. She’s watching him intently, although Sam doesn’t think her expression contains malice. She looks… he can’t even describe it. Concerned might start to cover it, but then again, she is an angel who has no need or interest in him to be concerned with.

Cheryl is still there too, watching him from by the doorway, worry creasing her brow. Sam tries to offer her a smile, but by the way her frown increases, he must assume that he fails.

Finally, Cas is in the room, standing by the windows, watching them, and it’s only then that Sam realizes that the windows are spilling in light, that the entire room is lit brightly and completely. The Darkness is gone. They really did succeed.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says as soon as Sam’s eyes open. “How you doin’?”

Sam tries to shrug, but his position pretty well prevents it. “Fine,” he says, his throat parched.

“Let me get you some water,” Cheryl says, quickly moving out of the room. She returns thirty seconds later with a full glass and, thankfully, a straw, which allowed him to sip the water without sitting up or making a huge mess.

“Where…?” he asks a few minutes later.

“My place,” Harriet says from the doorway, and Sam jumps, not even noticing that she had come it. “Figured it was as good as anywhere to get things straightened out, although if that brother of yours had his way, he’d have already been on his way, you in the back, off to do some fool thing or another.” Her face softens dramatically. “It’s good to have you back, Sam.”

_It’s good to be back_ is on the tip of Sam’s tongue, but he doesn’t say it. He wants to be sure before he offers such reassurances.

Thankfully, the silence doesn’t get awkward. Dean fills it immediately. “Speaking of that… how’d you come back?” he demands.

“Death isn’t as dead as you thought,” Sam says. “And he wanted one last deal.”

“One last…?” Dean repeats incredulously. “Sammy, what the hell did you do?”

“Nothing,” Sam defends. But it’s not true. He technically made a deal, even if it doesn’t seem like much of one. It’s a deal with Death, and that’s not something he can ignore. “Death had a proposal. Not asking much. Just… he never sees us again, unless he’s collecting, or coming to call in a favor.”

“A favor?” Dean snorts. “You promised Death favors? Great, Sammy.”

“Just… his normal stuff. Keeping balance in the universe.”

Flagstaff interjects then. “That’s all Death would ask for. Preserving balance is his point and purpose.”

Dean snarls, “He tried to kill you, Sammy.”

“Technically, he told you to kill me and you agreed,” Sam corrects before he can stop himself. He takes a deep breath. “He was making a deal based on what you asked him for, Dean. And trying to preserve balance.”

“He tried to kill you!” Dean repeats.

Flagstaff snorts. “Your brother has already made your involvement in the matter perfectly clear. Or did you forget what you did, Winchester?”

Sam keeps going before Dean can get a full head of steam and go off on the angel. “He demanded a favor. And to never see us again. Next time we die, it’s permanent. I think he just didn’t want to deal with you fucking around to get me back. That’s all, Dean.”

Dean snorts, clearly doubting, although whether he’s doubting if Sam is telling the truth, or Sam’s ability to make such a deal, Sam doesn’t know. But it’s the truth. It’s what happened.

“We’re glad to have you back,” Harriet says.

Cheryl nods. “Your brother was saying… but we weren’t sure…”

“It’s a perversion of the natural order,” Flagstaff interrupts, but she looks at Sam. “Nevertheless, Death saw fit to let you go one last time. I suppose it can pass. If any human deserves another chance, it’s you, Sam.”

Sam flushes, not quite sure how she reached that conclusion. “Death just… didn’t want to deal with whatever we would break,” he mutters.

“Death could have simply made you unretrievable,” Flagstaff points out. “He’s very powerful, Sam. The favor you might do him one day may repay the choice he made, but the fact is, he gave you a gift.”

_I consider it to be quite the honor to be collecting the likes of Sam Winchester. I try so hard not pass judgment at times like this--not my bag, you see, but you… Well played, my boy._

Sam flushes, and even Dean’s snort can’t marr the feeling spreading under his skin. He manages to regain his composure and ignore Dean’s attitude. “What happened?” he asks.

Cas steps forward, apparently ready to fill in the blanks. “Dean managed to call me. I’ve been… indisposed for several days. Hannah and Flagstaff have brought me back to health.”

Sam opens his mouth to ask, and Dean decides to fill him in. “That bitch Rowena got to him. That guard dog spell? She cast it on Cas, making him kill Crowley. Guess your trusty neighborhood witch wasn’t so trusty after all, huh?”

Sam sighs. He never trusted Rowena, although he does have to give her credit on doing exactly what their deal entailed. Technically, he promised Crowley dead too. She just had to get a little more creative in fulfilling that one. That doesn’t excuse what she did to Cas, of course. Nothing excuses that, and Sam’s heart sinks when thinking of what Cas must have gone through with that.

Flagstaff steps forward. “Our brother healed, and he heard your brother. We’d been watching the Darkness, waiting to see what could be done. Nothing worked on it from the outside, rather like it had an impenetrable shell. Castiel saved Dean, more’s the pity, but you were gone already.”

“And the Darkness?” Sam asks quickly, smoothing over the way Dean glares at Flagstaff.

Cas answers this. “Your plan worked. You drastically weakened the Darkness and managed to break it in places.”

“So it’s not gone,” Sam surmises.

“You didn’t kill it,” Cas confirms.

“Is it locked away again?”

“No,” Cas says. “We tried something different this time. Your brother gave me the idea, actually. Months ago. God created Light to destroy the Darkness, to weaken it and lock it up. So, we used the light. After your friends weakened it with holy water and you tore into it with the explosion, we broke through and brought the jagged remnants into the sun. It withered and died.”

Flagstaff shrugs. “The Darkness was built for another time. Light would always limit it. Although it did make a good start at taking over once more.”

“And…everything else?” Sam asks.

“Everyone’s good, Sam,” Cheryl says, seemingly knowing what he means. “We’re all okay. Your plan worked, except for the you dying bit.”

Sam manages to shrug. It doesn’t even really hurt, and he realizes then that Flagstaff healed him quite well. “That was always a contingency,” he says. “Not unexpected. Still being here, after that--now, that was unexpected.”

Flagstaff makes a disapproving noise. “Well, you’ll have to plan better,” she says. “You seem to be out of do-overs now.”

“Reaching the end of… this… doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world,” Sam says. He’ll like that. Knowing that next time, he can’t come back. That it will be guaranteed. Sure, he might miss things, like his brother. But he’ll know he can’t hurt things anymore. He’ll finally be at some semblance of peace, and any semblance, honestly, is better than none.

Harriet makes her own _tsking_ sound. “None of that, now,” she says. “You’re alive. Life is for living.”

“We’d love to have you in heaven--especially in the new heaven--but not quite yet, Sam,” Flagstaff says.

“New heaven?” Sam asks.

“Thank your friend Bobby for that. And Charlie, and Kevin, and Jo, and Ellen, and Ash. Your mother, too. And others. There’s been a bit of a change of order up there. Human and angels working together. I’m sure they’d love your input. I’m also sure they can wait.”

Sam moves to sit up, deciding lying around like an invalid is getting old for someone completely and totally healed. He looks at his brother. “It’s over?”

“Sure. Except we have to find Rowena. And Death is coming for us. Oh, and Crowley is pissed.”

“I thought you said…”

“Crowley has powerful magic of his own,” Cas interrupts. “He managed to stay alive. For now.”

The implicit notion hangs in the air. Crowley is once more the King of Hell of legend and horror. On the one hand, at least that means someone is running hell now, that it’s not being left up in the air, for anyone to grab at. On the other, it means Crowley is a formidable enemy once more.

“Rowena is well hidden,” Cas says. “You won’t find her easily.”

“Like anything ever comes easy to us.”

Sam is leery about going up against the powerful witch. It’s true that she obviously wronged Cas. Then again, Sam and, by extension, Cas, had kept her prisoner and promised to kill her son, a promise they technically didn’t deliver. Still, she hurt Cas. Maybe some vengeance is in order, if they can even find her to begin with.

He still doesn’t want to match wits with an old, powerful witch who, by all accounts, isn’t doing much of anything to them right then.

Flagstaff looks over the room. “I should return to heaven,” she says. “Negotiations, you know…” Sam doesn’t, but she doesn’t seem to be waiting to take questions. She turns to him specifically. “Sam, if you need me, don’t hesitate to call. I’ll be listening.”

She disappears after that. Dean shakes his head. “Crazy bat,” he mutters. Cas opens his mouth, but Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t even. She’s still all over me for something that wasn’t even me.”

Harriet snorts. “Amazing. She has feelings and can’t make them go away just to make you feel better. Better get used to it, boy.”

Dean shoots her a glare too, and Sam wonders if there’s anyone left in this room who he likes. Cas, Sam supposes, mostly because Cas saved Dean’s life a few hours ago. But everyone else seems to be on Dean’s shit list.

Cheryl jumps in. “Everyone else will be happy to see you, Sam. We were… worried,” she says, like she doesn’t think it’s the right word. “Grieving, I guess. It’s a miracle. Mind if I let them in?”

Sam shrugs. He doesn’t mind, not really. He likes them all well enough and he’s more than ready to reassure himself that he didn’t get anyone else killed. It just seems like a lot.

Cheryl leaves for a moment and comes back, leading a little group. Laura’s at the front, and she immediately moves to hug him. Sam’s shocked for a moment, but wraps his arm around her back in turn.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “You saved us, just like you said.”

Sam opens his mouth, but he doesn’t know what to say, how to respond to that. Instead, he settles for patting her back a few times before she lets go and moves back.

Behind her stands Billie, Mark, James, and Keiran, who are, oddly enough, holding hands. Sam raises an eyebrow.

Keiran flushes, but only tightens his grip on the dark hand interlaced with his pale one. “Turns out, surviving the raging Darkness monster trying to tentacle grab you shifts your priorities a bit,” he explains.

“Congratulations,” Sam manages to say. They both beam for a moment.

“How you doing?” James asks.

Sam shrugs. “Flagstaff healed me up. Good as new, I guess.”

“You _died_ ,” Billie points out.

“Not the first time,” Sam says.

“True as that is…” Keiran says, “You okay?”

“I’m good,” he promises, and he’s pretty sure it’s mostly true. Sure, he came back so he could see Dean, and be with him, and help Dean do whatever he needs to do, and right now Dean looks pissed at Sam and everything else under the sun. That’s not exactly ideal.

But Sam hasn’t spent his life expecting ideal, and now is not the time to start.

“I’m good,” he says again. “Alive and kicking. One last chance to get this right.”

“What’re you gonna do now?” Keiran asks.

Sam blinks. “What do you mean?”

“You got one last chance, son,” Mark points out. “What’re you gonna do with it?”

“You could go see the Eiffel Tower,” Laura suggests. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Send pictures.”

Sam blinks once more, because none of this makes any sense whatsoever.

“Find a pretty someone to settle down with?” Harriet suggests.

“Don’t be stupid,” Dean says. “Sam and I are hunters. We hunt.”

“Don’t _you_ be stupid,” Harriet says. “Sam just gave his life to this cause. Again, from the sounds of it. If he’s a cat on his last life, then he deserves to enjoy at least one of them, don’t you think?”

“Hunting is enjoyable!” Dean insists. “Sure, it’s not sunshine and roses all the time, but it’s our life.”  
“Maybe Sam doesn’t want it to be,” Cheryl points out. “Sam?”

All eyes turn to him, and Sam panics a little inside. He doesn't want the attention, doesn't want the judging eyes on him, all clearly expecting answers he's not sure he's ready to give.

“I don’t… hunting is my life,” Sam protests.

Dean looks almost proud, or satisfied at the very least, but Cheryl is actually the one to speak up. “It doesn’t have to be, you know.”

“You could do anything you want,” Harriet continues. “Including stay here, if you want. There’s always a place for you here.” She looks up the staircase, and Sam can’t see what she is obviously looking too, but it turns her face slightly wistful. “It’s not as if I don’t have the rooms.”

Sam tries to imagine it, tries to imagine living in whatever spare room Harriet has, working an ordinary job, trying to press money on her in rent and trying to get on with his life. It’s not as if he’s completely unfamiliar with attempting ordinary. It’s just that he’s historically proven to be somewhat terrible at it. Hunting will never let him go.

Mark speaks up. “Can always use help on the farm, kid.”

Sam doesn’t know how to respond to that, just shakes his head. He’s not necessarily trying to deny their offer--although he’s certainly not accepting it, doesn’t even think it’s truly viable to accept--but just needs to clear his head.

Dean snorts. “Thanks for the offer, man,” he says. “But Sammy and I need to get moving on. World to save, witch to hunt, pissed King of Hell to face, you know?”

“I don’t think the offer was made to you, idiot,” Billie says. “Pretty sure I didn’t hear your name.”

Laura nods. “This is for Sam.”

“I can’t stay,” he says quietly, knowing it to be true. Death brought Sam back because he knew Dean would never leave Sam dead. He would never leave Sam here, or anywhere else, either, not for too long.

He knows logically he’s healed, that all symptoms of what happened should have abated, but suddenly he’s very tired. “I think I need to sleep,” he mumbles, letting his eyes slip closed.

“Okay, sweetie,” Cheryl says. “We’ll talk more later, okay?”

Sam nods, then exhales deeply. He hears footsteps leave the room, and knows even Dean is nudged out.

 

He wakes up to gritty eyes and a headache presumably from sleeping too much. Seeing sunlight, even the last, falling strokes of a softly glowing sunset, is such a fresh novelty that Sam has to look around at the light illuminating the living room for a moment before he can take in who’s with him.

Surprisingly, it’s Harriet, not Dean. “Dean take off?” he asks, hoping to keep his voice casual, but he has to admit, the idea that Dean would have ditched him so quickly, so easily, when Sam had made it clear he would leave with him, hurts.

“No,” Harriet says. “He and that angel went to get that car of his. He’s already blustering on about what he’ll do if it’s ruined.”

“We parked it pretty far from the power plant. It should be fine,” Sam says.

Harriet seems less than interested in the car. “Right. Well…I was hoping you’d wake up before he got back anyways. I want to talk to you, Sam.”

Sam’s immediately on guard. “About what?” he asks.

“About what you’re planning on doing with the rest of your life,” she says.

“I figure just about what I’ve been doing all along,” Sam says.

She just looks at him. “And what happens the next time Dean beats you half to death?”

Sam gapes for a moment, but he doesn’t deny it. “He wasn’t himself,” he explains. “He wouldn’t… doesn’t…” It’s not entirely true, but then again, it’s all he has to say.

She looks decidedly unimpressed, even if Sam thinks he can detect sympathy in her eyes. “I’ve heard that before,” she says. “Maybe he wasn’t. But he still put you in that position, Sam. And that’s not fair to you. Besides, he seems himself now.”

“He hasn’t…”

“What? Hit you? You don’t need to hit for it to be abuse, Sam.”

Sam blinks. “That’s not…”

“He makes you feel bad about yourself. Insecure,” Harriet says. “You doubt your decisions, and it’s easier to just let him be in charge. He reminds you of your mistakes, over and over. Does he tell you things, and change them, just to see you fail?” She hesitates a split second. “Are you scared of him, Sam?”

“No!” Sam immediately denies. “I’m not scared of my brother.”

“But he makes you nervous, doesn’t he, Sam?” Harriet presses. “Makes you watch yourself around him, makes you have to be careful.”

Sam swallows. “He says he’s going to get better,” he says. “Fix things.”

“You’re not the first one to hear that,” Harriet says. “They’ll get better, if you just forgive them, stick by them, give them another chance. And maybe it works, for a while. Maybe they’re so afraid of losing control of you that they behave. For a bit. But they almost always go back.”

“So, you’re saying Dean is lying?” Sam asks, defense creeping up into his voice.

“He might not be. He might believe it. But he’s used to doing things a certain way, getting his way. And a person doesn’t give that up easy. Not without a lot of apology and guilt, and understanding, and a real desire to change. You think Dean has all of that, Sam?”

“He might,” Sam says challengingly, despite the fact that it was clearly a rhetorical question. Dean might. Just because he doesn’t show it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.

“Yeah. He might,” Harriet allows, but her doubt remains evident.

“How do you know all this anyways?” Sam asks, breaking the stifling silence that now pervades the room.

Harriet lets the silence sit for another moment before saying, “That room I offered you. It’s not just a spare. It was my daughter’s. And she was just like you.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at that, sure that he’s never heard that particular explanation before. Harriet’s eyes narrow. “Well, it wasn’t her brother. It was her boyfriend.”

Sam jumps a bit, realizing in what way Harriet’s daughter is _just like him_. Harriet either doesn’t notice or doesn’t consider acknowledging him jump as productive. “Maggie’s dead,” she says. “Been dead almost fifteen years now. He killed her for calling the police, for trying to leave. Happens more often than you’d think.” She juts her chin out. “You’re not the first person I’ve offered her room to who finds themselves in this situation. I think it’s a good use of it. And I’ve done my research.” She looks down. “How could I not have? Too late, but… I know now. I can save someone else, now.”

Sam swallows. “That’s not very encouraging about me leaving.”

Harriet manages to look up and even give him a bit of a smirk. “Thought you said your brother wouldn’t hurt you.” Then she gets serious. “Is that any way to live, Sam? We’ll help you, if you want to leave. Give you a place here. Or, you can go anywhere else you want.” She hesitates half a moment, just a breath waiting to be expended. Finally, she gives it life. “Or, if you’re sure, you can go with Dean. We don’t stop you, or tell you what to do. We just want you to know you have options.” She stands up and pats his knee. “Think about it. And we’re here to talk, if you want.”

Sam swallows. He doesn’t want. He doesn’t want to break whatever he has left of his life, to damage it by pawing through it, trying to change and reshape it on his own. He knows where that leads.

Somehow, he doesn’t think he has a choice, and not just because of what Harriet and the others are saying. It’s just one of those times.

He just hopes he doesn’t break everything this time.

 

They stay in town, at Harriet’s for several days more. Sam can’t quite figure out why, honestly. He’s healed. Dean is obviously chomping at the bit to get gone. But he sticks around. Even Cas stays with them, even if he pops in and out, apparently visiting heaven or running errands or doing whatever it is Cas does upon when not with them.

Everyone else has left, returned to their homes and their lives, but they all keep coming by. Even Billie shows up with Laura every single day, despite the fact that Sam got the feeling that the teenager never much liked them--and with good enough reason, he reminds himself.

Everyone wants to talk. They all seem to know he doesn’t want to talk about leaving or abuse or anything like that, that Harriet’s conversation had been as much as he can handle, but they insist on talking nonetheless. Mark talks incessantly about the farm, and Sam is sure it’s his not-so-subtle job pitch. The high school is looking for a soccer coach, and Sam can’t hold back his laughter at the idea of him being allowed to work with impressionable teenagers. Everyone has an idea. Everyone wants to know how he’s feeling.

Fine. Good enough.

He has no idea.

They all seem to be talking to Dean too, although Sam isn’t privy to most of those conversations, which happen in the other room or whenever he isn’t around. Sam wonders what they’re saying, but then decides he probably doesn’t need to know. He has enough to be getting on with.

He’s taken to making himself useful, fixing Harriet’s broken porch steps and the air conditioner that dies at the slightest provocation. The lamp in what Sam realizes is Maggie’s room--the room Harriet is still offering to him, he knows--needs new bulbs, and while that’s a ten minute task, he takes it as an opportunity to look around.

Maggie’s high school diploma is on the wall, framed, as are certificates for the local high school band, posters from old movies, and a few scattered pictures of friends. There are trophies on the top of one bookshelf--softball, and marching band competitions, by the looks of things--and piles of books stuffed into the actual shelf itself.

Sam wonders about this woman, about who she was and what her life was like, about how she moved on from the voracious reader, band kid to someone who died at the hands of her boyfriend. Then again, if the comparison Harriet is making between Maggie and Sam is in any way true, maybe Sam can understand.

But it isn’t. It can’t be. Dean would never…

Sam sighs. He knows the truth full well. He creeps around Dean like the ground is littered with landmines, and maybe it’s about time he stops expecting that to change. Or, to put it differently, he stops setting his options up as the fervent hope that it will someday change, or simply accepting it as the way life is. He doesn’t want to go, but it’s about time he considers what the best option is. For himself, for once.

The light bulbs finish quickly, but Sam doesn’t leave.

There’s an old chair in the corner. Harriet clearly cleans in here regularly enough, because nothing is dusty, but the chair has the unmistakable air of being unused. Sam lets himself slide into it, and reaches for one of the books on Maggie’s shelf.

_Anne of Green Gables_. He runs his fingers over the cover, again and again, refusing to open it and begin reading.

“Is that a good book?”

Sam jumps a bit and looks up to see Cas watching him. “I thought you knew everything about everything now,” Sam says.

Cas cocks his head slightly. “I can tell you the plot points, and about every adaptation. I cannot tell you if, objectively, it was a good book.”

“It is,” Sam says. “I haven’t read it in years, but… yeah.”

“Well, you can read it now.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. He sets the book aside, devoting his full attention to the angel.“Where have you been? You’ve been gone for a whole day. Not that you need to check in or anything, just wondering--”

“I’ve been tracking Metatron,” Cas interrupts.

Sam blinks, processing that, and he’s almost ashamed to admit that he’s forgotten the angel. “You find him?” Sam asks.

Cas shrugs. “I have leads,” he says. “I intend to hunt him down, and bring him back to heaven, before he can do any more damage. Also, Hannah seems quite angry that I lost him.”  
Sam snorts. “Yeah, I bet. You need help with that?”

“I was hoping for it,” Cas says. “But you’re not coming.”

Sam blinks. “Who says I’m not coming?”

“Everyone?” Cas asks, more of a question than a statement. “Everyone seems convinced you will stay here. Or go off somewhere else. But not continue on with Dean.”  
“I haven’t… I haven’t decided. Yet,” Sam admits.

“But you are considering leaving?” Cas asks.

Sam hesitates, but then admits it. “Yes.”

Cas tilts his head. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why would you leave your brother? Aren’t you two stronger together? Haven’t you worked so hard to stay together? Why would you throw all of that away?”

Sam just stares for a moment. “Because I’m sick of being…” Sam struggles to find the words for a moment, “... Dean’s. Or Dean’s primarily. Dean’s little brother, his responsibility, and his burden. Dean makes decisions about me more often than I do about myself. I want to be Sam’s, first and foremost. Dean’s equal, if I’m Dean’s anything.”

Cas is silent for a moment, clearly processing this. “I didn’t know there was anything wrong with your relationship, Sam.”

“How could you not know?” Sam asks.

Cas shrugs. “It’s the way things have always been. And… you never said anything.”

Sam laughs, a hollow, broken sound escaping his throat. “Yes, I did," he informs Cas. “Over and over. Just no one ever listened. You and everyone else just pushed me back towards Dean. Over and over again. I got too scared to say anything most of the time, because I didn’t want to hear how wrong I was, how I belonged with Dean, how I owed him, and I knew I would hear it. I thought I was wrong, Cas. That I needed to shut up and smile, keep moving on, take it, because it was all how things should be. But… it isn’t, is it?”

The questions is clearly rhetorical, and Cas seems to understand that. Sam has his own answer, clear as the sunlight still streaming through the windows.

Cas suddenly tilts his head to the other side, looking like a dog hearing a distant sound only accessible to its keen ears. “I’m going to continue my hunt of Metatron,” he says. “I don’t know if I will see you again, Sam.”

“We’re still friends, Cas,” Sam says. “That is, if that’s okay with you. If you can still be my friend. You can visit me whenever, if you want.”

“Thank you, Sam. I will,” Cas promises, and then he disappears, leaving Sam alone in Maggie’s room once more.

Then he hears familiar footsteps on the stairs, and he freezes. He’s seen Dean plenty of times of the last few days, but the others have ensured that they’re never alone together. He wonders how Dean managed to slip past Harriet now.

Dean pushes open the door. “I come in?” he asks.

Sam shrugs. It’s not like he’s going to stop Dean. Technically, it’s not even his house, even if the room has been offered to him.

Dean hesitates in the door. “Can I?” he repeats.

“Sure,” Sam says quietly after a few seconds’ silence. “What’s--what’s up?”

“I wanted to talk. If that’s okay.”

Sam swallows, not sure where this is leading. A lecture on why he’s a terrible person if he doesn’t come along with Dean? Or a reminder that Dean is better off, stronger without him, anyways? Something else entirely?  
“I’m headed out tomorrow,” Dean says. “Cas has a lead on Metatron and there’s some witchy looking stuff in Iowa. Probably not Rowena, but, you know, a job’s a job.”

Sam nods. “Sure,” he says, watching Dean’s knee as he talks.

“You should stay,” Dean says, blurting it out in one long breath, like the words had to take a running start to get past his lips.

Oh. So that’s the track this conversation is going to go. Sam nods. Well, he supposes it makes it easier. If Dean’s at the point where he’s decided he doesn’t want Sam again, that Sam isn’t worth his time and effort, than Sam can make this easier on everyone and just leave. Hopefully, Dean won’t change his mind in a month. Or, at the very least, he won’t come looking for Sam when he does.

“I mean… or go somewhere else. I bet Jody would let you crash there until you get your life together,” Dean continues. “You’ve always gotten on with Jody, right? She… god, she’s a good person. Or Harriet’s good too. Whatever you want.”

The rambling is getting irritating, honestly, but Sam doesn’t know how to make Dean stop. He gets it. Dean is ready to let Sam go, and he’s coming to tell him that.

“Wherever you want,” Dean repeats. “Just… not with me. Because I think we both know… you’re better off without me.”

Sam blinks, then looks up at Dean, who looks earnest despite how wrong he is. Dean has that backwards, it’s obviously not what he meant to say. “Don’t you mean, _I’m better off without you?_ ” he says.

Dean blinks. “Dude,” he says, “I think we both know… you don’t need me. Not really. I don’t know if you ever did, but now…” He sighs. “I’ve messed up, Sammy.”

“I know,” Sam says. “We talked about this.”

Dean shakes his head. “I didn’t really… sure, I knew I’d made some mistakes, but I never really got it. Harriet has been… and I called Jody, talked to her. That’s how I know she’d be happy to have you. She chewed me out a lot when I told her some things.”

“Like… what things?” Sam asks hesitantly. He’s not looking Dean quite in the eyes, but at least his gaze hasn’t returned to his knee, rather settling somewhere around his chin.

“You know what things,” Dean says, his voice quiet too now. “What I did to you, in that bar, and everything I said… back to the hospital… before that. All the things you told me about, and the others, too, the ones you didn’t even mention. I didn’t do the whole ‘forgive me Father’ schtick, list it all out, but maybe I should. It might take a while.”

Sam just stares at Dean’s chin, eyes glazing over stubble and freckles, in abject confusion. Dean talked about making changes, but even then, Sam thinks he knew it was big talk. But this…

“I think we both know I’ve fucked up. And I probably can’t fix it,” Dean says slowly. He takes a deep, heaving sigh of a breath. “Sam, this is--this is fucking hard, okay? But it’s true. I’ve fucked up. And you’re probably better off without me.”

Sam is still just staring, and he knows he’s probably expected to say something-- _anything_ , at this point--but he can’t quite organize his thoughts together. Dean shifts his weight. “So… where are you gonna go? Or… if you don’t wanna tell me, I guess that’s okay. It’s your life, and I know--I’m figuring out--I’m supposed to butt out, it’s your choice. But…”

Sam shrugs. He hasn’t really thought it through yet. Harriet will let him stay, and so would Jody, or he could make it on his own. It’s not like he has limited options.

“So… you’re joining Cas for the Metatron hunt?” Sam asks before he can stop himself.

Dean blinks, clearly having to get his bearings. “Uh… yeah,” he says. “That’s what I’m starting with, anyways. He’s got a lead, so… it makes sense. Do you want--do you want me to keep you updated? I can, if you want. Text you or email you or whatever. You want it?”

Sam hesitates a moment, but he knows full well what he _wants_ to do, and Harriet and Jody and Cheryl and the others will worry. Hell, he’ll worry. But he wants this, as stupid as it may be. And he has people in his corner now, people to pull him out and support him if things go bad, if he falls back in and can’t drag his own ass out, should it need dragging.

“How about you just tell me?” he asks.

Dean stares at him. “I don’t… Sam, you wanna explain this? Consider me a little slow.”

Sam takes a deep breath, gathering himself. “You know you’ve done some… fucked up stuff,” Sam begins, and Dean nods, his head bobbing so fast it practically blurs. “And… you’re sorry for it?” Sam asks. He does have to double-check, because while he feels like that is the gist of what Dean’s been saying, he’s never said the words. And somehow, they are important for Sam to hear, like a verbal commitment, a first step in the process lining itself up in his head.

Dean continues to nod. “I am, Sammy--Sam. I’m sorry. And I know, Jody and Harriet and all the rest told me that saying sorry isn’t going to fix things, and I’m not an idiot, I can figure that out, but I am. I’m sorry I hurt you, and made you feel like… that.”

While it grew rather lacking in the end, it’s still more than Sam’s had in a very long time, if not ever, and he accepts it. “Thank you,” he says. He hesitates, not sure how this is going to be taken. Then again, it’s the ultimate test. Dean either accepts his offer and they try to make this work, or he balks, and Sam knows it’s time to move on. Really, it’s as simple as that.

“There was a time when I talked about… there being conditions to us being brothers,” Sam hedges. Dean’s face seems to shut down, but he nods, if a bit guardedly. “If we do this, then… we have to go back to that, Dean. And we have to both mean it this time. You have to prove your word is good. You’ll treat me right. You’ll change, Dean, and you’ll stay that way.”

Dean takes a deep breath, seemingly resolving himself. He nods. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah, Sam. Okay. We can--we can do this.”

“It’s a case by case basis,” Sam continues. “I’m not making any promises. I’ll go with you on this case, for as long as things are good. If things go well, I’ll consider the next, and we can keep going like that. I can leave if I want. If I want my own motel room, or to drive my own car, I can. You listen to me just as much as yourself on hunts. You don’t make decisions for me. We talk, Dean. That’s the most important part. You talk to me, you let me talk to you. We make sure things are working. Okay?”

Dean nods jerkily. “So… you’re coming?” he asks after the slightest hesitation.

“You think we can make this work?” Sam asks quietly.

Dean manages to pull together a bit of his old cocky smile, and Sam realizes he somehow missed it. It’s all bluster and sheer determination and Dean and, most of the time, a joke they can be in on together, and it’s been so long since it’s looked like that. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m pretty sure we’ll manage.”

 

They leave the next morning, everyone coming out to say goodbye. Even Caitlyn makes it out, although she is a bit distant, not that that surprises Sam in the least.

Everyone wants a hug or a handshake goodbye, and Sam gives them out. James and Keiran are first, offering smiles and claps on shoulders, their other hands too busy being intertwined. Then there’s Caitlyn, who offers a watery smile and seems to run out of steam for any more. Cheryl is next, and she hugs Sam tight, whispering “Take care of yourself--and call” as she holds him close for a moment, pulling him down to her height.

Mark gives him a firm handshake, and reminds him the job on the farm is still there and isn’t going away anytime soon. Next is Billie and Laura, who, Sam is starting to notice, are significantly closer than they were just two weeks ago. Apparently, Billie’s been staying with Mark and Laura, and Sam wonders where this is going. She’s an intern after all, and her internship can’t be for much longer. But she keeps an arm around Laura even after the two of them break away from their three-person hug with Sam, and Sam can’t help but smile a bit.

They’re young, and they have their whole lives ahead of them. That gives them plenty of times to figure things out.

Last is Harriet, standing by her own doorway. She looks him up and down. “You’ll always have a place here,” she says.

Sam smiles. “I know,” he says. “If this doesn't work, I’ll be back.”

“And we’ll always answer your calls. If you need help,” she continues.

“I know,” Sam repeats.

“Take care of yourself,” she orders as she pulls him into a hug.

“I will,” he promises.

He stands off to the side while she gets to Dean too, giving him a similar all-over appraising look, this time with more added strictness. “You behave,” she says firmly. “You’re on your last chance; even that boy with the patience of a saint won’t give you forever.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, swallowing, looking down at her.

“Treat him right,” Keiran calls from across the living room, both him and James with their arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“I will,” Dean says.

Sam clears his throat. “We’re working on it.”

Harriet manages a smile. “Then we wish you all the luck.” Everyone nods with varying degrees of enthusiasm. But everyone nods.

“Call if you need us,” Harriet repeats quietly.

Sam nods, and then he and Dean leave, heading out to the Impala, parked right at the end of the driveway.

They sling their meager bags into the trunk, then move around front. Dean freezes. “You wanna drive?” he asks.

Sam considers, and then takes the key. The Impala will probably always be more Dean’s car than Sam’s. Sure, she was Sam’s childhood home, his only stable environment for most of his life. But she’s a car, and Sam and Dean’s relationship with cars seems to be monumentally, fundamentally different.

But driving upon occasion isn’t going to be out of the norm anymore, Sam resolves. So he takes the keys, then slides behind the wheel. Dean moves to the opposite side, getting into the passenger’s seat.

“Where’s Cas at?” Sam asks, starting the car.

“Indiana.”

“Okay, then,” Sam says, leaving the driveway, taking one hand off the wheel to wave to the people on the porch, watching them go. “Ready for this?”

Dean gives the question the weight it deserves. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

They drive off, heading out of town, crossing the border that was previously marked by the Darkness--Sam isn’t ashamed to say he holds his breath until they’re across--until, finally, they’re on the highway, open road stretching before them.

Dean’s silent for a few miles. “If I fuck up, will you tell me?” he asks.

“If I tell you, will you respect me and listen?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yes,” Sam promises.

They both heave sighs of relief, like the final piece of this agreement--this puzzle, honestly--have slotted into piece. Sam doesn’t know if it will work. This could all fall apart tomorrow, or next week, or a month from now. He can’t predict the future, and he doesn’t have much reason to trust Dean’s promises.

Somehow, though, for once, he doesn’t think he’s full of blind optimism. Maybe they actually have a shot at this.  
He supposes only time will tell. But, driving down the road to their next big hunt, promises still freshly hanging in the air, Dean in the passenger's seat and Sam at the wheel, Sam has a good feeling about things.

 

 


End file.
